Kindred Journeys

By Marjorie Tapley-Olson

Martha didn't figure on giving birth to her babies while chasing Farley, and she certainly didn't figure on losing them as she headed back across the country. Decades later, two children meet and set out to find a mother they never knew, and learn that even then, their search isn't over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483594408

Book preview

Fifty-Seven

Martha watched the air shimmer as heat rose off the hood. She knew that annoying red light on the dash meant you should do something, but she couldn’t remember what. So, she kept on driving. Then the smell of hot metal filled the air like a teakettle gone dry, and the car simply stopped. Nothing worked. She turned the key, but there wasn’t a sound. Plymouths were supposed to be dependable, but she reckoned that was only for up to 100,000 miles. Ole Blue was way over that. She remembered how Farley got so excited last year when the speedometer turned over.

A hunert thousand, Mart! Jeez, I never took one that high! Hardly a bit of trouble neither, since I had her. Betcha I get her to three. Know what, I’m gonna throw Ole Blue a party! Then Billy, Dale, Big John and Tom all helped celebrate: they got roaring drunk and had the best old time.

I don’t guess it would of made it to two hunert, Farley, Martha muttered as she pushed open the door. Maybe that’s why you left it behind. Her belly hurt where it had been mashed up against the steering wheel. Still, you can’t blame Ole Blue. I been giving him a pretty good workout. Maybe all those extra miles done him in.

Martha was used to talking to herself after all those days on the road. She put a hand on Ole Blue’s hood now and immediately jerked it back, putting her fingers in her mouth. Then she heard funny sounds, reminding her of chickens pecking on the old oil drum. She wondered if even Farley could have fixed this if he were here.

Maybe I’ll catch a ride somewheres and call… she said to herself.

She wasn’t sure who she’d call, but she’d work that out in her head while she walked. She was no stranger to catching rides, and she’d probably get a lift from the first car that came by. She sure hoped so; she felt lousy and hadn’t been feeling too good since the gas station. She had felt bad during Thanksgiving at Farley’s mama’s house, too, like her stomach was full of lead. But now it was more like she had a cannonball between her legs. If she stopped to pee, she was sure it would pop out and go thudding down the road.

She kept going uphill but had to stop halfway up because she was winded. She’d heard altitude took some getting used to, and she guessed it was true. Her ears picked up the sound of a car coming up behind her, slowing down a bit, then speeding up again when it got close. She figured they hadn’t noticed her condition. When the next car came along, she’d turn a little bit sideways so they would see. There sure weren’t many cars on the highways out here. She hoped one would come soon and take her in the same direction so she wouldn’t miss the last Burma Shave sign.

A smooth-surfaced boulder appeared ahead along the road. Martha figured she’d rest herself on it a bit, but first she had to pee. There was a gully running away from the road, but she didn’t know if she could get back up the steep slope. Besides, there might be snakes. Were there snakes at this altitude? She decided to lean against the boulder, do what she needed to, and sit just a minute. There were no cars in sight anyway, just dry, empty grasslands behind and some mighty big hills up ahead. Patches of snow streaked the tops of some of them. If Ole Blue were still running, he might’ve given up the ghost anyway when he saw those!

She couldn’t sit long because her stomach felt like it was right up in her throat and she couldn’t breathe. With a push, she was standing and on her way again, keeping to the side of the road. Going downhill was harder than going up. It was easier to breathe, but harder to walk when you couldn’t see where your feet were. Martha leaned against a road sign. She heard another car coming. She didn’t even move.

It was a fancy turquoise Buick, waxed up real shiny. The woman rolled down the window. Honey, what’re you doing way out here looking like that?

Before she could answer, the man asked, You come from that blue car we saw steaming back there?

Yessir, she answered. Could you give me a ride to the next town?

Oh, now, I don’t think we could do that, the man said quickly. No, we’d better not do nothing like that.

Don just got this car, all new velvet-gray upholstery, not a spot on it, The woman said. Just imagine if you started… I mean, it’s a ways to town, and you look like you could… I mean, any minute.

That ain’t gonna happen, Martha protested. I ain’t even hit eight months yet. She was a bit over, but it was close enough to true.

Well you sure are carrying big for eight months! Of course, I’ve seen ‘em huge at five months. But you’re sure carrying low.

Don’t think so ma’am. Just carrying in front, is all. I got a while yet.

The woman looked from Martha to the road and back. She was twisting the ring on her hand and moving her eyes to the dashboard and the rear view mirror. I mean, if anything happened, I just wouldn’t know what to do. I think I’d faint. We got nothing in the car to cover the new upholstery with. The dealer told us gray was the best color if it was to get stained, but I just know he wasn’t thinking of anything like this.

Don leaned across his wife, leaning his hand on her window, It wouldn’t be a good idea, see. It just wouldn’t be a good thing to do. But don’t you worry none, honey. Just as soon as we get to town, I’ll get somebody sent out here for you. A fireman. Yep, that’d be good, a fireman.

But Don, there’s probably only a volunteer fire company up ahead, his wife said.

Police then, he said. It doesn’t matter. They’re all trained.

Police? Just when Martha thought things couldn’t get worse, she saw they could. For all she knew, her daddy had told the police she was missing. She felt the blood rush past her ears, carrying the sound of her heart thumping.

Oh no, that’s fine, you don’t have to bother. Her eye caught the light off a tin-roofed house at the bottom of the hill, beyond a line of cottonwoods. I didn’t mean next town anyway, I meant next house. My brother’s house. There, at the bottom of the hill. That’s all the further I got to go.

Only that far? asked the woman. Well, I expect nothing can happen in that little bit of a distance, do you think, Don?

No, probably not that fast. Come on get in, honey, Don said. Your brother’s expecting you, is he?"

He sure is, said Martha. I just talked to him when I stopped for gas.

Martha didn’t usually lie, except little white ones that didn’t matter. She seemed to be packing up a wallop of those right now. The woman opened the back door for her. Martha squeezed herself past the protruding door handle, trying to fit her legs between the back of the front seat and her protruding belly. Even the rear seat of a big Buick seemed too small now, whereas before, the rear seat of most any car had always seemed big enough to do most anything you wanted to do there. She murmured a thank you, stretched her legs across the floor hump, and thought about what she’d do when she got out. She’d walk up the drive a ways, and if anyone was home and saw her, or worse, if they were coming to get the mail… Well, she’d figure it out. After all, it wouldn’t be a problem if no one looked out.

Mighty old car you had there, Don was saying. Didn’t quite get you all the way to your brother’s.

Yessir, sure is. No, didn’t quite.

Where’s your husband? He shouldn’t be letting you drive by yourself anyways, said the woman.

I ain… I mean, he didn’t think nothing of it, driving to my brother’s.

They had no more questions. They glided to a slow stop at the log posts framing the drive.

Your upholstery’s gonna be just fine now, she told the couple as she scrunched herself past the door handle. She was grateful that they drove off without waiting to see if she got up the driveway. One less problem. As soon as the Buick’s shiny bumper disappeared over the rise, she glanced up at the house. Pretty little place, peaceful. No one seemed to be home unless someone was in the white-painted barn beyond it.

Martha had to pee again. She moved off the road and held on to a tree leaning at a crazy angle over the ditch. She decided to get her panties all the way off this time. Last time she splattered. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t bend close enough to the ground. She pushed the panties off her belly, and they fell the rest of the way. Then she moved a step downhill from them.

You don’t know how good this here feels, she told the tree. A smile spread across her face, partly from the relief her bladder felt and partly from thinking of the couple in the Buick. If they had known the damp spots on her panties were only a skirt’s thinness from their gray-velvety upholstery… She looked down at the panties. They were wet and had dirt on them now, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to bend down to reach them. The elastic had been cutting into her skin anyway. She decided to leave them there.

A pickup whizzed by as she got herself back onto the road. She didn’t even look at it. Here she had thought anyone would pick up a woman as far along as her. Wrong. She had it figured out now: no one would. They were too scared that if she had her baby right there, they might have to help deliver it. Well, she couldn’t blame them. It didn’t matter anyway. She’d be with Farley way before that happened.

Beyond the mailbox, the rise to the house seemed steeper than it had looked from up on the hill. She’d make it though, despite this weight. She was actually feeling better now, just heavy. She was strong, just like her mama. How many times had she heard how, in the old days, women stopped their work in the middle of a field, had their baby, swaddled it up on their back, and then went on working? Mama almost did, only she was just taking lunch out to daddy when it happened, and he got her right back into the house after, and his mama was there to help her. Mama never did go to any hospital, not then, and not with her brothers either.

She heard another car coming up behind her, slowing, stopping. It was a station wagon with wood-paneled sides, too muddy to tell the color. A man, deeply tanned and friendly looking, leaned out of his window. Strains of Pat Boone were drifting from his radio. She hoped it wasn’t someone who lived here.

Howdy, ma’am, he said. He stared at her belly before he realized he was being impolite. Thought you was headed somewheres further, but I see you ain’t in any condition to be going far. You stayin’ here at Caroline’s place? He shook his head like he’d said something dumb and chuckled, Guess that’s a silly question, ain’t it!

Martha nodded. She wondered why it was silly, but she didn’t dare ask.

You want a lift up to the house? he asked.

No, I’m fine. I still got a long way to go, Martha replied. Sure did, she thought, all the way down to Albuquerque. But he took it as she meant it, about when the baby was due. She gestured toward a small grove of apple trees. I just mean to grab a few apples, she said. They might make good pie. She said might in case pie-making didn’t fit with this Caroline.

Sure ‘nuff, ma’am. You just be real careful now. He poked his head back in and shoved the car into gear.

Martha watched him go down the road. He seemed like a real nice fellow. Make some gal a nice husband. Bet he’d marry her right away too if she’d gotten pregnant. He didn’t look like the kind to be scared or run off or anything like that. Probably even would have brought her some of those apples if she’d have asked him.

Apples. She was mighty hungry, craved apples, and figured she could take some with her. Between her and the branches drooping with fruit, there was a split-rail fence. It looked strong, but she knew she couldn’t climb over it. She wouldn’t be able to bend under it either, even though the rails were fairly high above the ground. She looked along the distance of it and saw a place further along where the post broke into a V and it wouldn’t be too hard to squeeze through. Good thing too, ‘cause she really had to pee again. But she hardly got past the fence before she was already peeing. Only this time it wasn’t like before. She was gushing water, making her own little pool in the mud between her feet. She didn’t even have time to think about it because then the first contraction came.

Francesca pushed the thin stem of a cornflower through the buttonhole on her uniform. Blue against pink and white stripes, it was a nice touch. When she bothered to look good, her patients felt she cared about them. She stopped to stick her lunch in the third-floor refrigerator, then headed to Mr. Albasca’s room.

It had only been a mild stroke, but he was listless, slow to respond, and took no interest in anything. Failure to thrive, Dr. Stevens called it. Mr. Albasca had just been moved to her ward. They always sent her the ones that needed special attention.

What do you know about him? she asked the head nurse.

It’s all on his chart, Vi said.

No, I mean what do you know about him personally?

Vi sighed and thought a minute, Not much. Lives out toward Hermosa, near the road to the Bar D. Worked for the Durango-Silverton before he retired. Wasn’t an engineer though. His wife worked there too.

He has a wife? I’m surprised she hasn’t visited…

And won’t, said Vi. She passed away about three months ago. Doc Stevens thinks the shock of her death might of brought on the attack. Has a son too. Stayed the week after the stroke, spent all day. Brought in a bunch of pictures before he flew back to work. Not much change since.

Mr. Albasca? Francesca called as she went in. She knew he had heard her by the way he turned his head closer to the wall. She leaned over, took the pictures off the dresser top, and looked at them: a picture of Mr. Albasca and his wife sitting on the cowcatcher of a steam locomotive; a more recent one in a silver frame that matched their hair; a dark-haired man in his thirties, standing on an apartment balcony with a woman and newborn; and a toddler wearing a gift box like a hat, peering out from the curls of ribbon. Francesca smiled. She gathered them all and set them up on the bedside table behind his pill bottles.

Vi told me you lost your wife recently. I’m so sorry. Mr. Albasca didn’t move. I know it feels almost impossible to go on, Francesca said softly. I lost my husband three years ago. It still seems like yesterday. Francesca sat at the foot of the bed. Mr. Albasca’s eyes moved toward her. Then I realized I had to get on with life. I have a son. Had to keep his dad alive for him, show him pictures, be sure he heard all the stories about him. She paused, reached out to the table. You have pictures too. Looks like you’re a grandpa. It’s hard: now you have to be Grandma too. And you have to tell the stories so the little guy will remember her.

Mr. Albasca stirred. Francesca reached over and picked up a picture. This is your wife, yes? Quite pretty. Where was this one taken? You were on a vacation?

Mr. Albasca turned his head slowly and looked at the picture. He said nothing. Francesca noticed that the word Galveston and a date were written on the back.

I went to Florida once, she continued. I think I was at this beach. There’s a lot to see in Florida. I remember a place called Wikki Waki, or Weekee Wachee, or something like that. Did you ever go there?

Not Florida, Mr. Albasca’s voice was weak, but he was looking at the picture. Texas.

Texas has beaches? Francesca said with feigned surprise.

Mr. Albasca peered more closely at the picture. Galveston. Her brother’s. An afternoon at the ocean.

Nice to have good times to remember. Oh… she glanced at her watch. I’m supposed to be starting my rounds. Sorry, I’ll drop back in afterward. I’d like to look at some more of your pictures.

She moved the pill bottles so the pictures were all in view, went to the door, and glanced back as she left the room. Mr. Albasca was gazing at the picture of the beach.

When she returned from her rounds, he was asleep. The picture was in his hand, held loosely against the bed covers. Carefully, she pulled it out from his fingers and put it back with the others. He stirred. She picked up the picture of the young couple and baby. His eyelids fluttered, and she saw him peeking through crusty lashes. Francesca turned the picture toward him after noting that the young man wore a suit.

Handsome. That’s your son, I bet. Looks tired. Let me guess… he works a night shift? Factory?

No factory, Mr. Albasca said.

Well, there’s a baby. They can keep you up nights! Maybe that’s it.

No. Not much sleep. Just finished residency.

A doctor. That explains it. I’ll bet you’re proud of him.

Mr. Albasca pointed to the young woman in the picture. Nurse. Met her out there. Baltimore. He put his fingertip on the boy. Grandson. Bailey.

Bailey Albasca. Nice sound to it, said Francesca

Bailey Alfredo Albasca, Mr. Albasca said proudly. My name’s there in the middle.

Well how about that! Francesca exclaimed. You must be very proud of Bailey Alfredo Albasca!

How do you do it? Vi asked her when she came in the next day.

Do what? Francesca asked back.

Mr. Albasca. Two days ago, he was a washrag. Last evening he was showing all his pictures to the night staff!

Francesca smiled. He needed to remember that he’s not the only one hurting. After all, his family lost their mom and grandma too. They need him to help remember her, that’s all.

You’re something! They oughta put you on the old gal upstairs, see what you could do with her.

Haven’t heard about her, Francesca said.

Really? It’s all they talk about on the third floor. They found her wandering along the road, no idea how far she’d come. Only had a tattered social security card, probably not even her married name. Loony as a tune. Every time I come in, she says, ‘New here, ain’t you?’ Then she starts in on the craziest stories! Some days she says she has kids, some days, no kids. Some days she says their names. Odd ones. Cord was one; maybe she meant Cordelia. Then a Minnie, then a Hudson. She must’ve named that one after that Rock Hudson fella in the movies. Talks to anyone who’ll listen to her, and those tales! Still, it’s better than the complaining some of them do.

Francesca was curious. She decided to look in on the old woman the next time she was upstairs. When she did, the poor thing started in on her stories the minute she saw she had an audience. Something about her fascinated Francesca. Maybe it was the inventiveness of her tales. She went back the next day to listen to more. She heard outlandish stories about kids who were lost and men who disappeared, came back, disappeared again. Where did she get this stuff? Most of it probably came from the soaps.

Despite how entertaining some old people could be, these days Francesca was realizing more and more that she was discontented. Vi came into the third floor lounge one day and caught her with a faraway look.

What’s the matter, hon, too much going on?

Not enough, actually, Francesca said with a wistful smile. I keep thinking about that degree I never finished. Vi, you ever feel like you’re flailing in the mud, never getting up to speed?

Vi shook her head and guffawed. "Honey, flailing is my speed! So you’re getting tired of all of us here, huh?"

Nope. Love you all dearly. It’s sort of more like midlife crisis.

"Midlife crisis? Listen doll, I can’t count the candles you’d need to blow out before you hit midlife crisis! Look at this, she said, pointing directly at her face, this is midlife crisis!"

Francesca tried not to laugh. Vi, I’m serious. I only have my associate’s degree: I had Billy, Spider died, that’s still all I have. And I can’t afford going back to school on this salary.

You’ll figure a way, Vi interrupted. I can always tell. People like you, they get a notion and they’re off like rockets.

I’m afraid I’m more of a fizzle, Francesca said, smoothing her uniform with both hands and a sigh. Oh, don’t mind me, Vi. I just get restless once in a while.

Francesca was thinking about that conversation with Vi when she started down her driveway. Billy was already home from school, out repairing the deer fence. She walked back up the hill to him.

Looks good, she commented, sitting on one of the boulders that made fencing the yard so hard. She watched him work for a minute and then asked, Billy, do you ever get tired of this?

No, Ma. How could I? He cut another long piece of wire. I never even tried to fix a fence before!

Francesca laughed and shook her head. I didn’t mean fixing the fence. I mean living in Durango. All the tourists, listening to that train whistle every day, watching the new houses gobble up the valley…

Billy draped the wire over the fence and came up to the car. I like the train, he said. Anyway, this is where we’ve always been. Why? What’s up, Ma?

Nothing’s up, Francesca said. I just get to thinking sometimes. I got another letter from your dad’s folks. They’d sure like to see you more! Both of us, I guess. As usual, they want us to visit. Your granddad even went so far as to say he might be able to pull some strings at Walter Reed, maybe get me a job.

What’d you tell him? Billy asked, Would you like that?

No, I would not. Not until I get more schooling, she thought, but she let that go unspoken. She would never say anything to make Billy feel he was the reason she wasn’t moving forward with her life. Sometimes I just wonder what it would be like to live in some other part of the country, that’s all. But it’s silly. You’ve got school here, your friends…

Hey, so what? None that special since Badger moved. I like it here, but a change of scenery… He grinned. Hey, maybe you could get a job at Disney World!

We’ll see, she said. I’ll check my mouse credentials. She hoisted herself from the boulder. "But maybe we will go visit your grandparents. They’ve always come here. We should go see them and check out the East Coast. Maybe when school’s out."

Cool, Billy said, turning back to the fence.

Francesca smiled. Billy was a great kid. She loved him too much to jerk him away from his life here. She went inside and slipped into khakis and her baggy sweatshirt with Colorado written in white across purple mountains. She picked up the letter from her in-laws; they were still in-laws even though Spider was gone, weren’t they? Well at least they’d always be Billy’s grandparents. She unfolded the letter, deciding to read it again. She and Billy had never been out East. It would be interesting…

As she sank down on the sofa with the letter, she thought of Spider. Everyone had called him that since he was a kid. He was nothing but arms and legs and dark hair: Spider was the name that stuck. He never minded being called that. What he did mind was the pain that came from growing so fast, and he was never happier than when his body caught up with his legs a bit and the pain stopped. They didn’t know back then that it was all part of a syndrome and that the heart was involved too. Marfan’s, they called it. When they did find that out, they’d already had Billy. They had him checked right away. He was lucky: his dark hair and good nature were the only genes of his dad’s he seemed to have. You may not be lucky again, they told her, if you have more children.

Spider agreed. You don’t win the lottery twice, he told her. Then he had a mild heart attack. He was awfully young for such a thing to happen, but they had been warned. The second heart attack took him.

Francesca put her hand over both eyes for a moment. She had times like this, feeling sorry for herself; even more for Billy, who only had memories of a father. Most of all, she felt for Spider, who wasn’t here to watch his son grow up. Sometimes Francesca thought it would have been easier if Billy had turned out to have behavior problems or a temper. Then she could have told herself that it was a good thing Spider wasn’t here to see it.

Martha couldn’t believe she’d made it up that rickety ladder! She breathed in the sweet summer scent of the barn loft hay with quick breaths. The pains were closer, and she cried out. She had worried that her groans would be heard, and they had been. A woman’s face peered over the top of the ladder, forehead wrinkled with concern.

Stopped for a little rest, she said, hoping the woman couldn’t see