Ramona Ausubel - A Guide to Being Born - Stories

“I’m pretty good,” she admitted.

“You have a definite talent,” he said as he threw a hard one her way. “I expect you’ll be able to get yourself a scholarship if you work at it. I believe it’s your turn.”

“OK. Mother Mom was born an Annie, but I started in calling her Mother the way Annie called Grandma Pete. But Annie said she’d rather be Mom since she felt old the other way, though instead of swapping out, I just tagged on, and from then on the woman had two names that meant the same thing.

“Annie had become a mom because she wasn’t shy about calling Pops ‘Pops’ and she wasn’t shy about what he wanted from her, which kept him coming around a few nights a week. Though they never intended to make a baby out of the situation, pretty soon he took the saddlebags off his bike and unpacked them into the drawer that had been cleared out, all except for a little hand-sewn sachet of pine needles.

“Now, Grandma Pete used to be Grandma Mae until Grandfather Pete died several years back, and she took it as her personal crusade to make him as remembered as a man could be. That was also when she moved into the fixed-up shed behind our house and when she started in loving the game of baseball. She found an old shot of Grandfather when he was in the service playing a game, him at the center of the triangle and a lot of cottonwoods as a backdrop. Handsomest she ever thought he looked. She wanted to make some more copies of that photograph. Come to think of it, she wanted to make some more copies of a lot of photographs. With the help of Mother Mom and me, she covered every inch of wall in her shed-house with pictures of Grandfather Pete. We blew them up and shrank them down for variety. On a long Saturday, the three of us climbed on chairs, stools and ladders to nail up stacks of those photographs so that, in the end, his face looked in from every direction.

“The only places where he wasn’t staring out were the flat surfaces where Grandma kept her collections of trinkets—bears, moose and fairies. ‘A woman has to have a place for herself,’ she always said, dusting them off with her fingertips.

“When the walls were covered, Grandma walked down to the county clerk’s office and had her name officially changed. The last time she’d been in that room was the day she and her husband-to-be went to get their marriage license. That first time she took his last name, and this time she took his first. She put her old white hand on the counter and asked to be officially renamed in the eyes of God and everyone. The boy filled out the paperwork and got the right signature and sent the old lady out into the afternoon sun with her husband’s name.”

The General encouraged Buck with a steady smile.

“That’s it,” she said. “Since then it’s just been us and the birds.”

“What about your story?”

“My story?”

“Buck’s story.”

Buck scrunched her nose. “It’s the same as my family’s story. As of today I guess I can add that I met you and discovered I can catch even better than I can throw. Your turn.”

“This next part requires acting.”

“Sure,” Buck replied.

The General didn’t know the name of his killer, so Buck stayed nameless. She was told how to spring out from behind a short hill, in this case imagined, and how to weave between bodies. Buck’s important line was “This is your end,” to which the General yelled, “But it isn’t the end of the war!” Before they got there, though, they each fought several other men. The routines were carefully explained to Buck, the General standing behind, his arms wrapped around her, all four of their hands grasping a long branch while they shuffled forward and back, slicing the air. They practiced the scene a dozen times, with Buck ending by hovering over the General every time, her fist around an imaginary knife. “This is your end!” she seethed. She got very good at delivering that final line, her teeth clenched, her face hot.

The light was low by this time, and a fleet of swallows circled overhead catching evening bugs. “I think we’re ready for the real one,” the General said. He handed Buck a short, sharp stick to tuck into her sock. Buck and the General took their places in the clearing and battled imaginary soldiers separately, the sound of their branch-swords making wind as they cut back and forth. They breathed hard and mumbled at their opponents before turning on each other. They followed the steps of their dance perfectly, each putting the other in jeopardy, losing control and trying again. They cursed each other and dove for the ground after dropped weapons. Finally, in the last moments, Buck pulled her stick from her sock and held it over the General’s heart as he lay on the ground staring up, his eyes reflecting the purple of the sunset.

“This is your end,” Buck grumbled, and drove the stick into the General’s chest. She felt more resistance than she had expected. The General yelled back at her, “But it isn’t the end of the war!” and he coughed and spit and made choking sounds that were absolutely realistic.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey. You’re fine, right?”

“The story of Buck is just getting going,” he whispered. He held his chest with one hand and with the other he blew her a kiss. “Catch,” he whispered.

Buck could see real pain in his eyes until he relaxed onto his back and his arms fell away and he was still. Suddenly Buck wasn’t sure about anything. She looked at the man with the stick in his chest and then at her own hands and the pinecones and at the darkening forest, and Buck began to run.

She tore through the woods, kicking up leaves and hitting her shins against low branches. The forest was noisy with evening feeding traffic not limited to the swallows, who continued to swirl overhead. Rustle occurred in the underbrush all around, and bugs occupied the middle region between ground and sky. Buck’s own breathing and stamping and crushing of whatever was on the earth in front of her scared up squirrels, who darted off in every direction.

She got the quilt-squares of lighted windows in her sights. As she approached, she saw her mother lying on her stomach on a flattened plastic sun chair, a cage full of songbirds hanging above her. Buck did not slow her run across the lawn and came to a halt all at once when she could crawl under the chair, her back flat against the sun-warmed stone and her face exactly below her mother’s, whose nose and cheeks were smashed against the plastic. Buck put her hands on the underside of the chair, on her mother’s stomach. The blue weave had absorbed the heat of the body on top. Buck could feel her own heat rising up, the sweat fighting to evaporate against air that was already full of moisture. Her heart had not slowed yet. A drip of spit hung down toward Buck. It was a jewel. Buck took it on her finger and ate it.

Mother Mom woke up suddenly, surprised.

“It’s me,” Buck said, pressing. “I’m home now.”

“Hello, Buck,” Mother Mom said. She did not seem surprised to be acting as her daughter’s protective canopy. “You all right?” Buck nodded and pressed. Mother Mom scooted up so that her face came over the top of the chair.

“Catch anything?” Buck asked just for the sake of niceness, because she could see and hear that her mother had.

“I caught you,” Mother Mom said, and she smiled and reached her arms around and took hold of the small hands below.

THE STORY OF Buck’s own name was the only one she had wrong, but it wasn’t Buck who was lying. Indeed she had Mamie on her birth certificate, after the president’s wife. But Pops, who had been very angry about the existence of any baby because it meant the end of his roving, ranging, free-love life, and who also had no interest in cowboys whatsoever, had come storming into the hospital room where Annie and the new bald girl were lying. She nursed her and petted her soft head. When he saw the baby, he pulled his wallet out of his front pocket where he always kept it, for safety. “Here!” he yelled, throwing a one-dollar bill at the bed. “This is my contribution! Call that baby Buck, ’cause that’s all he’s worth!”