Joey and his mother arrived still arguing over the use of his car, because, as he had pointed out more than once, Debbie and her husband had a car of their own, and why couldn’t they, at least now and then, pay a visit to Mom, their martyr, so that she could size up her enlarging daughter and determine the remaining distance to the tape, the birth weight of the baby, its sex, the color of its eventual hair and eyes, the side of the family it would most resemble, and inquire of its name — had there been a choice of kinds? Hermann for a beefy kid, Hans for ordinary, or Heinrich if he was going to be tall, Gretchen if she was fated to be fat.
But Grandmother could not remember that the baby’s name was Boulder, would remain Boulder, and that Hans or Hermann Boulder was not a felicitous combination — as if much went with Skizzen either — or plainly face the problem that would arise if the baby was a girl — Heidi Boulder? Gretel then? or Melanie? Melanie Boulder, for heaven’s sake.
They sat in the drive for a moment to conclude wounding each other in a nice way before they knocked at Deborah’s door like explorers who switch on their lamps when entering a cave: smiles like headlights, eagerness concealing caution in one case, apprehension in another.
After having stared at his sister with the requisite interest, Joey said, I don’t see any difference; you look the same to me, cheerleader lady. Oh no, the roundness is easy to be present, his mother exclaimed, releasing Debbie from her first, wet-eyed embrace. Later, feeling a bit more welcome than she worried she might be, Miriam touched the cloth that covered her daughter’s sacred stomach the way she might pat the head of a pet. You will be showing soon. I shall sew some skirts. With a maternity panel.
Deborah wasn’t wearing bobby socks and a letter sweater. She was wearing an apron. Joey’s remark had been both stupid and dishonest. He felt sorry for the first, ashamed for the second. She did look different. Her hair was no longer ponytailed but full of waves that fell to her shoulders, her face was fatter, too, and rosy, her eyes didn’t appear to be looking into a mirror, no makeup was noticeable, no crimson nails. She was as matter-of-fact as a spoon. There was one positive outcome to this exchange of clichés. Joey had concealed his consternations.
Their further greetings were equally conventional and consequently cordial. Roger will be in shortly; he’s at the barn repairing the tractor, Deborah said, he’ll be along, and how about tea? They followed her into a sunny kitchenette. How convenient the machine proved to be, Joey thought, Roger didn’t have to be here. The tractor could play broke and its driver miss the visit. Joey began to put words to their discussion of how important her husband’s presence would be. To Miriam, only the sight of the unseeable baby mattered. Joey was green as a shriveled lime. But Debbie? Her attitude he could not discern.
The table was ready for them. A pot of jam, he saw, had been set on a robust red tomato, the largest among the many tomatoes that hung from several long thin inadequate vines inked into the cloth. The sun rollicked along the lips of the teacups, already put about. Lemon slices had been cut, and sugar cubes collected in a kind of square bowl whose odd configuration was meant to be moderne. No cake?
Miriam asked many questions, none requiring an answer, while Joey worried about Roger, who was in what barn? Joey’d not seen a barn, or any — what were they called? — outbuildings of the sort that usually sat around like ill-treated dogs and glared at the main house they were not allowed to visit. Miriam and Deborah shared a laugh as Debbie drew some buns from her oven. Sugar buns, well, what a treat, Joey said, though neither listened, except perhaps the stove did, despite having its door closed.
On a fan of fingers, Miriam counted the crucial months before the baby was due. Never had he felt so shut out, even when, on their various journeys, he was often excluded because of his age and inexperience. In those migratory days Joey was sometimes the very subject from which he was being shielded; but now, though as large in the room as they, he was noticed no more than the tomatoes that even several saucers and a trivet could not conceal from his eyes; even though each of these implements was being gay and prancy on his behalf, while sugar and sunlight were stirred into pourings of tea.
I don’t see any barn. Where is the barn?
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Does it fold up during the night and only appear when you need it?
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I remember noticing that your car was gone, Deb, is your barn, then, a drive distant? That’s unusual, isn’t it? not to be nearby? I don’t remember missing the barn when we were out here for the wedding.
It’s a drive. I haven’t been sick a day so far. Roger walks it sometimes. I feel the same each morning as I felt the day before.
Oh, that’s fortunate. But it’s early. I remember how sick you made me … ach … as sick as that evil English clotted cream that brought me to bed that time, remember? you were eight? No, it was the eight days running I threw up, I’m thinking of. You were how old?
Isn’t it unusual for the barn … you know … to be so far away?
Gee, I don’t remember. All that — it’s as if it happened in another life. This house was built under the only tree.
I was very impressed by tractors when I was a kid. Well, the ones I liked were bulldozers really.
For me it’s like yesterday, that other life, Miriam said in her serious voice. I see it plain as that windowpane. I hear it — the sirens and the plosions and the burning — I hear them in my head, especially at night. At night, you must remember, we waited for the rockets.
They kept shoving rubble into piles so trucks could cart the bombing off. Joey tried to hang this contribution in what proved to be a closet.
No flows for a while, no cramps. What a relief. I do the same things I always do.
That’s fortunate, but that will change, oh my, will it. I swear I used to feel my skin stretch.
I always wanted to sit on one. You suppose Roger could hoist me up?
Joey sensed some wheels on the gravel drive — it was probably Roger — but then he heard an engine rev, and the wheels moved out of earshot. He fastened his gaze on a saltcellar made entirely of knobbles.
Is it red — the tractor, he heard himself ask. Is it red?
Miriam admired the tomato-covered cloth.
Coloring-book red, his sister said. I did it myself. The colors are fast.
Do you have pink things set aside, his mother wanted to know.
Plenty of time for that. Have some more? Plenty of time.
It’s only a pebble right now, but it will be a boulder someday, Joey considered saying but wisely did not.
No hurry now, Miriam said, you’ll be in a hurry soon enough.
All smiled. Including the cups.
The tractor? Is it …?
– — – — – — – — – — – — –
Joseph informed the Major of his new duties, and even spoke about some of his misgivings, confiding in her, to his surprise, more fully than he had his mother. But of course the Major could ride free on his train of thought while Miriam wouldn’t want to pay the fare.
My sister will bear a Boulder.