*
They did not have diapers, so Lavender wrapped a clean rag around Ansel’s waist and knotted it at the legs. She swaddled him tight in one of the barn blankets, then stood to limp after Johnny.
She hiked barefoot back up to the house. Dizzy. She’d been in so much pain, she did not remember the trip to the barn, only that Johnny had carried her, and now she didn’t have shoes—the late-winter air was biting cold, and Lavender held Ansel to her chest as he spluttered. She guessed it was near midnight.
The farmhouse sat at the top of a hill. Even in the dark it looked lopsided, leaning precariously to the left. The house was a constant work in progress. Johnny’s grandfather had left them with the burst pipes, the leaking roof, the missing windowpanes. Usually, Lavender didn’t mind. It was worth it for the moments she stood alone on the deck, overlooking the wide expanse of field. The rolling grass shone silver in the mornings, orange in the evenings, and across the pasture, she could see the gnashing peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. The farmhouse sat just outside Essex, New York, an hour’s drive from Canada. On a clear day she liked to squint into the bright, imagining an invisible line where the distance turned into another country entirely. The thought was exotic, enchanting. Lavender had never left New York State.
“Will you make a fire?” she asked, when they were inside. The house was frigid, the previous night’s cold ash sitting gusty in the wood stove.
“It’s late,” Johnny said. “Aren’t you tired?”
It wasn’t worth the argument. Lavender struggled up the stairs, where she sponged the blood from her legs with a washcloth and changed her clothes. None of her old clothes fit anymore: the bell-bottom corduroys she’d thrifted with Julie sat in a box with her best collared blouses, too tight for her bulging stomach. By the time she climbed into bed, wearing one of Johnny’s old T-shirts, he was already asleep, and Ansel was fussing in a bundle on her pillow. Lavender’s neck crackled with dried sweat, and she dozed upright with the baby in her arms, anxious, half dreaming.
By morning, Ansel’s rag had soaked through and Lavender could feel the slick of diarrhea running down her deflating belly. When Johnny woke to the smell, he jolted—Ansel started to cry, a shrieking upset.
Johnny stood, fumbling for an old T-shirt, which he threw onto the bed just out of Lavender’s reach.
“If you can hold him for a second—” Lavender said.
The look Johnny gave her then. The frustration did not belong on his face—it was the kind of ugly that must have originated inside Lavender herself. I’m sorry, Lavender wanted to say, though she did not know what for. As she listened to Johnny’s footsteps creak down the stairs, Lavender pressed her lips to the screaming baby’s forehead. This was how it always went, wasn’t it? All those women who’d come before her, in caves and tents and covered wagons. It was a wonder how she’d never given much thought to the ancient, timeless fact. Motherhood was, by nature, a thing you did alone.
*
Here were the things Johnny had loved once: The mole on the back of Lavender’s neck, which he used to kiss before they fell asleep. The bones in her fingers, so small he swore he could feel each one. How Lavender’s teeth overlapped in the front—snaggle, he called her, teasing.
Now, Johnny did not see her teeth. Instead, the scratches on her face from Ansel’s tiny nails.
“For God’s sake,” he said, as Ansel screamed. “Can’t you make him stop?”
Johnny sat at the pockmarked table, using Ansel’s pudgy fingers to trace cartoon animals into the leftover fat on his dinner plate. Dog, Johnny explained, his voice croaking tender. Chicken. Ansel’s face was blobby, uncomprehending—when the baby inevitably started whining, Johnny passed him back to Lavender and stood for his evening cigar. Alone again, as Ansel’s fingers streaked grease across her shirt, Lavender tried to hold the scene at the front of her consciousness. How Johnny had gazed at his son for those brief, perfect minutes, like he wanted to impart himself on the child. Like DNA was not enough. With the baby in his lap, cooing and affectionate, Johnny looked like the man Lavender had met in the tavern so long ago. She could still hear Julie’s voice, misty and beer-soured.
I bet he’s soft on the inside, Julie had whispered. I bet you could take a bite right out of him.
*
By the time Ansel could sit up on his own, Lavender could not recall the contours of Julie’s face—only eyelashes, and a sly, sneaky grin. Fraying jeans and a choker necklace, nicotine and homemade lip balm. Julie’s voice, humming the Supremes. What about California? Julie had asked, betrayed, when Lavender announced she’d be moving to the farmhouse. What about the protests? It won’t be the same without you. Lavender remembered Julie’s silhouette through the window of the departing bus, a homemade sign tucked somewhere by her feet. End The War In Vietnam! Julie had waved as the Greyhound groaned away, and Lavender had not wondered—had not even questioned—whether a choice was a thing that could ravage.