Chapter 37
OUT OF THE BLUE
I was thinking of that dinner on a Saturday afternoon in February over a year later as I pulled the Fleetmaster Deluxe into the driveway and climbed out. Without wrecking anything, you’ll notice. I’d learned to drive eventually, and all I’ll say about that is, I had a very patient husband.
We’d been living in our new home outside the tiny town of Woodside for almost six months now, and Joe was a practicing attorney at last, but I still got the same thrill every time I arrived, and I thought he did too.
It was so wholly and completely ours, you see.
There was the wall of windows in the living room that we’d insisted on over the builder’s objections—“Where will you hang pictures?” he’d asked, as if one could possibly find a picture more beautiful than the mighty madrones and smaller manzanitas, with their red bark and sinuous shapes, and the towering redwoods that soared above them all.
There were the raised garden beds, too, at the sunnier front of the house, which Joe had constructed from railroad ties and then filled with endless wheelbarrow loads of rich earth, coarse sand, and worm castings.
I’d teased him that I hadn’t known I was marrying a worm farmer, but there the little wrigglers were, working away in their own Joe-built bin in a shaded corner, being fed a worm-feast of eggshells, vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, banana peels, and anything else Joe thought they might like.
Inside the house, there were not only my windows, but also my kitchen and bathrooms. In the end, I’d made the kitchen twice as large as the builder had suggested, “For,” I’d explained to Mrs. Stark, “there must be great comfort in a kitchen, don’t you think?
” And she’d agreed with me. In fact, from the cozy pine table that divided kitchen from living room to the wood heating stove and its pile of logs, from the pale birch cabinets and cream-colored walls to the white appliances, we’d flouted every one of the builder’s suggestions, and I loved my kitchen even more than I loved our bathroom, with its pale blue-gray walls and white fixtures.
The absolute antithesis of everything The Ladies’ Home Journal had to say about what was modern and attractive, but I didn’t care.
In this, I’d decided, I would be a princess and decide for myself.
The best thing about the new house, though?
It had Susie and Fred next door. “Why would we live in that cookie-cutter neighborhood when I could be in the woods with you,” Fred had said, “being forced by Joe’s example to cut my own firewood and grow my own vegetables?
I’m telling you right now, though: chickens are out. ”
“But Fred,” Susie had said, “fresh eggs are so much better.”
“You say that,” Fred had answered, “because you didn’t grow up with chickens.
Do you have any idea how much work it is to butcher a hen, and how bad it smells?
You eviscerate the thing and think, ‘Well, nothing could be worse than that,’ and then you scald and pluck it and change your mind pretty darn quickly.
Not to mention how loud a rooster can be.
You think they crow at dawn? They crow before dawn, and then they keep right on doing it.
If you want chickens, marry a farmer, not an engineer. ”
Susie had chosen the engineer, of course, and there the two of them were, happily chicken-free and right next door.
Of course, this also meant that I saw Susie nearly every day.
This had been wonderful, for she was a most generous and amusing friend, and also, to my private dismay at my envious heart, not so wonderful, for she and Fred were expecting their first baby in three months.
Her happiness hadn’t always been easy to witness.
I’d prayed every night for God to grant me generosity, but, oh, how many babies there were in the winter of 1951!
Barbara and David now had two sons: Samuel, who was three and a most serious and determined little boy, and Daniel, six months old and the sunniest child imaginable, with his head of dark curls and his laughing brown eyes.
I was thinking of this as I opened the door, and then I put it aside as Joe came to meet me—he had a smudge of ink on his cheek, for he too had been hard at work—gave me my kiss, which was still of the bending-back kind and still made me breathless, and said, “How did it go?”
“Very well,” I said, setting down my briefcase and the bag with my supplies with relief, for I was very tired. “I won’t have to hold it open next Saturday, I’m sure. More than a hundred visitors!”
“How did the cookies go over?” Joe asked.
This had been my brainstorm: to have cookies baking in the oven throughout the afternoon, so the house smelled delicious and the kitchen felt homey.
I’d had to restrict myself to those without chocolate chips, however.
I’d never imagined how many places small children could smear chocolate!
“The reports are positive,” I said. “Snickerdoodles received the best reception yet. Cinnamon is a very appetizing smell, I think.”
“I’ll bet,” Joe said. “You look tired, though. Go have a rest.” I hesitated, and he said, “What?”
“Do you have time for a walk?” I asked. “It would give us a chance to talk.”
He looked at me oddly. “Have we been neglecting each other? I haven’t noticed that, but have you?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not. Just … walking and talking is very comfortable. Very gemütlich. I still can’t find the correct English word for this.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” Joe said. “Comfortable, cozy, welcomed, contented …”
“Yes,” I said. “All of that. That’s how I feel, coming home. And walking in the woods with you, too. It’s been so stormy, and today is so surprisingly and happily mild. More storms will come next week, and I feel a great desire to enjoy the fine weather while we have it.”
I was chattering and knew it, but beyond another quizzical look, Joe didn’t comment. He just said, “Let’s change clothes, then, and go.”
Outside, the sun shone and the breeze rustled the leaves and sang through the redwoods.
The air smelled of loam and freshness, and I walked ahead of Joe and let the scents and sights and sounds wash over me.
We climbed a rise and looked out over the valley, at all the new development spread out below us—how quickly the population was growing!
—and I said, “I have something important to discuss with you.”
“I thought so,” Joe said, calm as always. “Shoot.”
“I—I’m very happy with you,” I said, walking down the trail ahead of him.
“Even though you fill your rucksack for a simple walk in the woods the same way you’d have done in the Army.
It isn’t raining today, yet you still have two ponchos!
And a first-aid kit, and two canteens, and food.
I’ve begun to feel that we really ought to have an emergency sometime, as hard as you’ve prepared for it. ”
“Well,” Joe said from behind me, “I’ve always said—” Then there was a noise. Not a scream; it was worse than that. A terrible noise, a sort of muffled cry.
I whirled. And froze.
My brain didn’t want to register what I saw. Joe was on his stomach on the ground, fighting to rise. And over him was a tawny thing like a cat. A very large cat.
It was a mountain lion, and it had Joe’s head in its jaws. Joe was shouting, “Marguerite! Run!”
What I did next was pure instinct, and pure rage. I didn’t remember what the rules were for mountain lions. I didn’t even think of that. I was grabbing a huge branch knocked down by the storm, and then I was charging. Screaming. Flailing.
When my stick—nearly a log—made contact with the cat’s head, it flinched, but it didn’t let go of Joe.
So I hit it some more. Head, shoulders, ribs.
I hit that cougar everyplace I could reach, screaming like a madwoman all the while.
Joe was still gasping something, probably “Run!” again, but I couldn’t hear him over my own screams. I jabbed the end of the log with all my might against the cat’s face.
I raised the log with both hands and brought it down on the top of its head, and when that didn’t work, I swung it like a bat.
It worked. The mountain lion let go. Its muzzle was a mask of blood, its long fangs stained red as it crouched and snarled, its tail lashing. It still stood over Joe, like he was its kill, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let that happen.
So I kept charging. I kept screaming. I kept waving the log, then connected hard with the cat’s face again, and it yelped. I screamed, “Raus! Raus! Du Monster! Ich bring dich um!” Unaware that I was speaking German, filled with the strength and rage of ten.
The cat bunched its muscles as if to spring. Joe said, “Marguerite—” It was a gasp, but I couldn’t look at him. I kept charging. I kept hitting.
The cat backed away.
I charged it again. I kept yelling. I kept swinging my log.
It turned around and vanished into the trees. I saw a tawny shape moving, and then I didn’t see it at all.
Joe. I needed to get him out of here. I ran to him, praying harder than I’d ever prayed in my life. Please, God, was all I could think. Please, God. Please.
“Joe,” I said when I got to him. “Joe. Get up. Darling, get up.” Begging him, now, as I’d begged God. Crouching before him, getting my hands under his shoulders, sobbing with effort and fear. How could I possibly lift him? How could I leave him? What should I do?
“I’m … OK.” The words were thready, but they were there. A patch of his scalp hung loose, I realized with horror, and when he pushed himself up, the blood streamed down his face. “Help me … up.”
I did. I got under him and put my shoulder under his, and then I straightened my legs. He got his feet under him and rose, staggering. I was still sobbing, still talking. Saying his name.
“Marguerite,” he said on a gasp. “You need to … calm down.”
“Calm … down? Calm down?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Put your … arm around my waist. I can’t really … see. We need to get out of here.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. I will do this. I am here. I have you. Come on.”
Of the next twenty or thirty minutes, I remember chiefly the effort.
Nearly staggering under Joe’s weight, I walked on doggedly, and as for Joe?
His feet kept moving without cease. He said, at one point, “Not the … worst thing. At least I’m not …
shot.” I tried to laugh at that, but I couldn’t.
My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t unstick my lips.
Another time, he said, “Head wounds always … bleed. That’s all it is. S-surface.”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. It’s blood, that’s all. We can bleed and survive, both of us. We can survive. Keep walking. We’ll both keep walking.”
“You … bet.” His voice was growing fainter, and the blood was everywhere, hot and thick and wet and coppery-smelling. “Marching. Like the Army. Got to keep … marching.”
“Yes,” I said, and then, for some ridiculous reason, began to sing the song I’d heard the Americans sing as they marched, all the way back in Germany.
“Over hill, over dale,
We have hit the dusty trail
As those caissons go rolling along.”
Joe joined in now. How could he sing with the blood pouring from him? Because he was Joe, that was how. Because his strength was endless.
“‘Counter march! Right about!’
Hear those wagon soldiers shout
As those caissons go rolling along.”
Both of us together now, Joe breathing the words and me singing with all my might.
“Then it’s hi! hi! Hee!
In the field artillery
Count out your numbers loud and strong—two! three!
And where’er we go
You will always know
That those caissons go rolling along—keep ’em rolling—
That those caissons go rolling along.”
I sang it after he quieted. I sang it all the way. And when we stopped outside Fred and Susie’s door, I was singing it still.
For months afterward, I would see the scenes before my eyes every time I closed them.
The cat on top of Joe. My screams. The march down the hill.
And the drive to the hospital, with Fred taking the curves too fast and Susie and me holding tea towels hard against Joe’s head in an attempt to stop the endless flow of blood.
The rasp of his breathing, and the icy determination warring with the fear in my body.
The doors of the hospital, and Fred and me half-carrying Joe inside.
The two nurses in their white uniforms, caps, and shoes, running toward us.
Joe didn’t feel taller than me, or bigger than me, not now. I could have supported him forever.
Then they took him away, and I sank into a chair and shook while Susie held me. My face, my arms, my hands sticky and stained red. Blood in my hair. Blood on my clothes. Covered in blood.
I had the bleeding disorder. It wasn’t supposed to be Joe bleeding! Not again. I’d saved him. I’d saved him! He wasn’t supposed to bleed anymore!
Covered with blood, and back to praying.
Please, God.
Please.
Please.