Cloven Hooves. Megan Lindholm
away from my five-year-old son and to my husband.
Who is also asleep in his seat on the other side of me.
Light hair is falling over his forehead. He breathes softly, evenly, at peace with the world and himself. I know I should let him rest. This is the horrible leave-Fairbanks-in-the-middle-of-the-night, -arrive-in-Seattle-too-early-to-be-awake flight. I should let him sleep, so he will be fresh and alert when his parents come to meet us at the airport. I shouldn’t wake him just to talk to me and reassure me. I really should let him sleep.
But I touch his hair lightly back into place. He smiles, and without opening his eyes, his hand comes up to hold mine. For a time we are silent, shooting through the night. Strangers occupy other seats around us, and doze or smoke or read papers or sip drinks. But Tom and I are alone among them. It is something we have always been able to do, make a quiet, private space around ourselves, no matter what the circumstances.
“Still worrying?” he asks me softly. His eyes remain closed.
“A little,” I admit.
“Silly.” His hand squeezes mine briefly, then relaxes again. He sighs, shifts in his seat to face me. He leans his face against the seat back while he talks to me, as if we were in our bed at home, lying face-to-face, heads on pillows, talking. It makes me wish we were, that I could snug my body up against his and hold him while he talks. He speaks softly, his deep voice soothing as a bedtime story. “We’re going to have a good time. Well, you will, anyway. I’ve got to fill in on the farm and in the shop until Bix’s shoulder heals. Fields to plow, tractors to fix. But you and Teddy will have a great time. Teddy’s going to have the farm to run around on. Eggs to gather, chicks, ducklings, pigs, all that stuff. And my mom and sisters are going to love having you. Ever since I married you, Mom and Steffie have been dying to get their hands on you. Go shopping, introduce you around. Steffie had so many plans when I talked to her on the phone, I don’t know how you’ll keep up with her.” He smiles at the thought of his younger sister.
I edge closer in my seat, lean my head close to his. “That’s just it. I don’t know how I’ll keep up with her, either.” I think of Steffie as I last saw her, on a brief Christmas visit two years ago. She had been just out of high school that year. She’d come home from some party, into the living room of the farmhouse, dressed in a dark green velvet sheath and high black heels, begemmed at ear and throat and wrist. Like a magazine cover come to life, but rushing to hug us, to say she was so glad we’d been able to fly down for Christmas. The memory reawakens in me the same twinge I’d felt then: awe at her beauty, and a shiver of fear.
Why?
Because she was so beautiful, so perfect. The ugly little jealousy that beautiful women always awoke in me had stirred. That she was Tom’s own sister hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t a sexual kind of jealousy. It was the knowledge that I could never compete with women like that, that I’d never learned to be elegant and feminine and charming and stunning and all those other adjectives that Steffie and Mother Maurie embodied so easily. Yet these were the type of women that Tom had around him when he was growing up. How could he have settled for a mouse like me? What if he woke up one day and realized he’d been cheated?
I tune in suddenly that Tom is still talking. “Steffie and Ellie love you. Mom and Dad think you’re great. Of course, I think a lot of that is that they were amazed that any woman at all would have me. Probably secretly grateful you married me and whisked me off to Alaska and out of their hair.”
He is teasing, of course. No one could ever wish to be rid of him. Tom is as perfect a product as Steffie is, tall and handsome and muscled, charming and kind and intelligent. Tom could have had his pick of women. I am still mystified that he chose me. But he did. And six years of marriage have taught me that I can believe in that miracle. So I can say to him, honestly, “I’m just afraid I’ll do something wrong. Put my foot in my mouth, spill soup in my lap. We’ve never stayed a month with them before, Tom. That’s a long time to live in someone else’s house, see them every day. I don’t know how I’ll handle it.”
He refuses to share my worry. “You’ll handle it just fine. They’ll love you just like I do. Besides, we’ll be in the little guest house. You’ll have time to yourself. I know you aren’t into socializing all the time. They’ll understand when you need to be alone.”
He believes it. There’s no mistaking the calm assumption in his voice. I wish I could.
He senses my doubt. “Look, Evelyn, it’ll be easy. Just let them make a fuss over you. They’ll love that. Go shopping. Get your hair done, buy some earrings, do, oh, I don’t know, whatever it is that women do together. You’ll have a great time.”
I look down at my sedate black skirt that matches my sedate black jacket that covers my simple white blouse. I think of the jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers in my luggage. I try to imagine shopping with Steffie. Green velvet. Sparkling earrings. The images don’t fit. “I’ll try,” I say doubtfully.
“I know. You’ll do fine.” He squeezes my hand again, leans back in his seat.
“What about your dad?” I say softly.
Tom grins suddenly. “That old fart still got you buffaloed? Look, Evelyn, it’s a big front. Just stand up to him and give him the same shit right back. He’ll only push you as far as you let him. I found that out a long time ago.”
“That’s easier said than done,” I mutter disconsolately, remembering his father’s piercing black eyes and square jaw. “Kinda skinny, ain’t she?” he’d remarked loudly to Tom the first time we were introduced. I’d stood still, too stunned to speak, until Mother Maurie shook my hand merrily and said, “Oh, don’t mind him, he’s just teasing.” But I hadn’t seen any laughter in his eyes. Only evaluation, like I was a heifer Tom had brought home for breeding stock. “He scares me,” I confess.
Tom laughs softly. “Only because you let him. Hey, he’s had to be that way to get where he is. If he hadn’t been direct and assertive, and pushed people for all he could get out of them, he’d still be plowing the back forty and trying to pay off the mortgages. He pushes. I know that. But it’s not like it’s just you. He’s like that to everyone, just to see how far they’ll push. Draw a line.” He sees the doubt in my face, offers an alternative. “But there are other ways to get around him. Hell, look at Steffie’s way. Be Daddy’s little girl when he’s looking, and do what you please later.” He chuckles fondly at how well Steffie gets around their dad.
It is all so simple for him. Tom is like that. People are easy for him. He meets them, he sizes them up, he knows just how to handle them. And they always like him. Instantly, the first time they meet him. And they go on liking him, always. When we were in college, all the girls had crushes on him and all the guys thought he was a helluva friend. The freaks and the bikers, the druggies and the straights, the profs and the frat guys: they’d all liked him. He shifts gears effortlessly, is never out of place. I have always envied him that talent; he is able to be anything that anyone needs, as required.
And to me, he is everything. Husband, lover, best friend. There are very few people in my life, but I have never felt alone since Tom came to me, he fills all the niches for me. I look at him and a wave of tenderness breaks over me. After all he has done for me, surely I can do this simple thing for him. Live near his family for a month, make them like me, be pleasant to them. It won’t be hard. Make Tom proud of me. In a way, it is a thing I owe them. And whenever things get hard, I’ll just remind myself that these people are Tom’s family, that without them, he wouldn’t exist.
For a moment, I flash back to the fact that without Tom, I wouldn’t exist. Not as I am now. He had taken a horribly introverted, socially hostile girl and made her over into a competent woman who was satisfied with her life. I think of our little cabin and ten acres of woods, of my job at Annie’s Organic Foods and Teas. I have friends now, real friends, something I’d never had when I was growing up. Annie and our regular customers, and Pete and Beth down the road, and Caleb our mail carrier and all the others that Tom had so effortlessly befriended for me. I’d ridden into those friendships on his coattails, learned to socialize by