Beaming Sonny Home by Cathie Pelletier Page B
Authors: Cathie Pelletier
Mattie saw one of her own fingers reach down to the cradle and disconnect her son, cut the cord, the way the doctor had done thirty-six years ago. Now Sonny Gifford was in some kind of limbo, way down there in Bangor, Maine, where Mattie could never reach him, where other women would now have to help him.
6
From the road, it looked as though Elmer Fennelson had put in another doozy of a garden. Mattie stood in front of Elmerâs mailbox and gazed across the rows and rows of what would be wonderful vegetables come late summer. She had needed to get out of the house, to replay Sonnyâs words in her head, someplace where the girls couldnât look into her eyes and read her thoughts. It would be another two hours until the six oâclock news was on. And it was possible that Elmer would be out on his porch and would invite her up for a cup of tea. They could sit and complain about the changes that had swept them along since they were children, changes in the landscape, changes in the faces they met each day in Mattagash, changes in the weather. Everyone knew the winters were nothing like they used to be. And neither were the people. There was once a time when Mattagash folks considered it high entertainment to sit on summer porches, the workday done, the men home from the woods. And some kid would make a little fire with kindling and wood chips in the bottom of a discarded water pail. Then heâd cover the fire with green grass to make it smoke, and that smoke would fight off the blackflies and mosquitoes. And with evening drawing itself in close, Mattagashers told the stories that had passed around town for generations, stories that were tattered as old coats. And in the winter, a hardwood fire in the cookstove was the magnet folks drew up to in someoneâs kitchen, as they listened to the summer stories being told again, this time a little better than the previous telling, a little more cheese in the beginnings, a little more spice in the endings. Old stories. Stories Mattieâs father had heard as a boy. Stories Elmerâs mother thought old in her day. But in the here and now, all Mattagash women tended to do was watch TV and jump up and down to exercise videos. They didnât even have to drive to Watertown to shop for odds and ends anymore. They could order off those crazy shopping networks. Mattie remembered the first time she ever saw a human being running when there didnât seem to be a good reason for it. âWhy is Marilou Fennelson running along the road?â Mattie had asked Gracie as they drove past in Gracieâs car. There didnât seem to be a house fire. There wasnât a black bear chasing Marilou. Her husband, Stewart, wasnât running after her with a garter snake or anything. âExercise,â Gracie had muttered. Mattie had turned and looked back at Marilou for a long, long time. Exercise. âBut whatâs she running for?â Mattie was still asking Gracie long after Marilou had disappeared behind a turn in the road. Then, suddenly, a whole lot of people were running and jogging and walking and bouncing all over the place. All things Mattieâs generation had done during the course of a regular workday.
The door to Elmerâs mailbox was open, so Mattie closed it before some bird with notions of having more babies starting filling the box up with grass and twigs, some bird ready to raise its second brood of the year. She was hoping that Elmer might have been working on something in his garage, or in his garden, or sitting on his porch keeping a vigil on his hummingbird feeder. Mattie didnât want to knock on the door in case she might disturb him. She knew Elmer liked to read the Bible now and then as his day unfolded. He was always finding something in the Good Book to pertain to modern life. If Elmer had been on his porch, Mattie could have ambled across his lawn, climbed the four or five steps to the spare rocker, and the two could have
6
From the road, it looked as though Elmer Fennelson had put in another doozy of a garden. Mattie stood in front of Elmerâs mailbox and gazed across the rows and rows of what would be wonderful vegetables come late summer. She had needed to get out of the house, to replay Sonnyâs words in her head, someplace where the girls couldnât look into her eyes and read her thoughts. It would be another two hours until the six oâclock news was on. And it was possible that Elmer would be out on his porch and would invite her up for a cup of tea. They could sit and complain about the changes that had swept them along since they were children, changes in the landscape, changes in the faces they met each day in Mattagash, changes in the weather. Everyone knew the winters were nothing like they used to be. And neither were the people. There was once a time when Mattagash folks considered it high entertainment to sit on summer porches, the workday done, the men home from the woods. And some kid would make a little fire with kindling and wood chips in the bottom of a discarded water pail. Then heâd cover the fire with green grass to make it smoke, and that smoke would fight off the blackflies and mosquitoes. And with evening drawing itself in close, Mattagashers told the stories that had passed around town for generations, stories that were tattered as old coats. And in the winter, a hardwood fire in the cookstove was the magnet folks drew up to in someoneâs kitchen, as they listened to the summer stories being told again, this time a little better than the previous telling, a little more cheese in the beginnings, a little more spice in the endings. Old stories. Stories Mattieâs father had heard as a boy. Stories Elmerâs mother thought old in her day. But in the here and now, all Mattagash women tended to do was watch TV and jump up and down to exercise videos. They didnât even have to drive to Watertown to shop for odds and ends anymore. They could order off those crazy shopping networks. Mattie remembered the first time she ever saw a human being running when there didnât seem to be a good reason for it. âWhy is Marilou Fennelson running along the road?â Mattie had asked Gracie as they drove past in Gracieâs car. There didnât seem to be a house fire. There wasnât a black bear chasing Marilou. Her husband, Stewart, wasnât running after her with a garter snake or anything. âExercise,â Gracie had muttered. Mattie had turned and looked back at Marilou for a long, long time. Exercise. âBut whatâs she running for?â Mattie was still asking Gracie long after Marilou had disappeared behind a turn in the road. Then, suddenly, a whole lot of people were running and jogging and walking and bouncing all over the place. All things Mattieâs generation had done during the course of a regular workday.
The door to Elmerâs mailbox was open, so Mattie closed it before some bird with notions of having more babies starting filling the box up with grass and twigs, some bird ready to raise its second brood of the year. She was hoping that Elmer might have been working on something in his garage, or in his garden, or sitting on his porch keeping a vigil on his hummingbird feeder. Mattie didnât want to knock on the door in case she might disturb him. She knew Elmer liked to read the Bible now and then as his day unfolded. He was always finding something in the Good Book to pertain to modern life. If Elmer had been on his porch, Mattie could have ambled across his lawn, climbed the four or five steps to the spare rocker, and the two could have