The Gorge

46 "Where's Alice?" Because of that voice, because of that question, because of the movie in my head, Alice, I couldn't close my eyes anymore. I saw you flying over the treetops like a sky diver, your little arms and legs spread out just like sky divers do in movies. Did you think it was a new game? Did you welcome the rushing air? I couldn't see your face, just that small square back with no parachute on it. Nothing broke your fall. You slipped in the peach-yellow leaves and disappeared from view. Carter was standing at the head of the washed out path leading down to the cliff, searching the little lookout. "Where's Alice?" "Yes, Alice!" He raised his voice, for once afraid. "Alice." That name was your grandmother's, too. Carter was her only child. Being the one and only is what made your father so centered. Centered and balanced: he could walk a plank across Linville Gorge without swaying once. He would know that plank was put down just for his purpose. It was the same with us: mother, wife, daughterwe circled around him on graphite smooth tracks. And so I had you, Alice. After Carter's appointment to assistant professor at the university, a baby was the next logical step. Of course he knew his baby would be the sweetest, the smartest little girl in the world. And you did look sweet all dolled up in the cute little outfits Carter's mother bought you. But I used those only for show. Soon as I could, off they'd come, before you vomited all over yourself. Your stomach needed to mature, Alice. I'd seen it before, when I was taking care of my brother, Junior. Poor little thing, he was the family's sixth and last child, and Momma was already letting him slip away that hot summer day we took him to the clinic. "Give him time, Hattie," the doctor had said, folding away his stethoscope while Junior lay stiff as a board on the examining table. He lifted the baby up and held him out to Momma, who sat plunked in the only chair in the office. When her hands stayed on the purse in her lap, he handed Junior to me. "Is it colic, Doc?" Momma asked. "The minute I lay him down, he starts squalling. None of my other babies did like that. I'm plumb wore out." "His stomach needs to mature, give him a few more months." The doctor scribbled in the manila folder before him, his thumb clicked the ball-point Een, and he hooked the pen back into his reast pocket. "I see Willa Mae is a big help to you. What is she, thirteen now? he flapped his hand over at me, as I yanked at the tight neck of Junior's tee shirt. "I'm plumb wore out," Momma repeated . "You've got Willa Mae, Hattie." He didn't wait to find out how old I was. "A responsible young lady." I hurried out because the doctor was standing by the door, waiting for us to leave. Momma slowly followed. After all, she couldn't just sit in that doctor's chair all day. "I'm plumb wore out." Momma said it again on the top step of the porch at home, as she sagged against the railing while the noon heat clung to us like honeysuckle vines. Junior's sweaty little face had sunk against my shoulder as the ride home put him to sleep. I wanted to give him to Momma to hold, to be free to get a cool drink of water and sit in my favorite hemlock, to spread my legs under my skirt and raise my arms high, just bathing in the dark shade. "Put him down, Willa Mae. I'm gonna put that chair inside, out of this neat." As Junior began to fret, Momma directed me to take the kids' junk off the padded aluminum lounger wedged between the old wringer washer and the woodpile. With a dish towel she took a few swipes at the mildewed plastic. "Help me get it inside...