Lizzie(in-progress)

Lizzie

Cauthorn

One “Why don’t you learn how to talk to a chicken?” suggested Lizzie. Her hand was on her hip, and by the glint in her eye, I could tell she thought she sounded very logical. I stared at her with no movement or expression. “What good is that?” We both looked questioningly at the chicken clucking his head off toward us, trying to look dangerous. I, personally, knew that this particular chicken could, in fact, turn the hurt on you if he wanted. I figured I knew how to handle it, though; after eleven years on the farm, you learn things—mostly the hard way. Lizzie rubbed her thumb and index finger on her chin, pondering the question. She looked exactly like her Pa, out in the field with dirty overalls on and that wise look in the eye. “So you can see what he wants. Look, he obviously wants something.” I rolled my eyes. “How the heck can you tell?” I turned away, as to propose that we leave, but my eyes met the pig pen. Billy Jo was over near there, waving a sponge in the air and smiling her bright coral lipstick grin at me. I turned back to face Lizzie; she was clucking and bobbing her head at the chicken (that poor chicken). He shut up right quick and backed up against the barn. Lizzie’s brain musta been in the off position ‘cos then she started flapping her arms. The scared animal against the barn ran away. We stayed until the rough sound of chicken feet on rock and dirt faded away. “Maybe we should lock you in with the chickens. I mean, lookit, you’re already good at actin’ like one.” Her back was to me, but I knew the look on her face. It was the same look her Ma has when we accidentally squash a tomato in her garden or pull the wet clothes down off the line. And before I could hop the chicken coop fence, she slugged me. That was the last I ever saw of Lizzie: three years ago. The blurred vision of her backside, strolling over to Billy Jo.

Two I reckon y’all need to know ‘bout me, even though this here story ain’t ‘bout me. The name’s Harry Collins. But not according to my Ma; to her, I’m “Harold Juniper” when she’s mad, “Sugar Dumplin’” when she wants somethin’, and “Boy” when she needs work done (which is most all other times). She calls me “Boy” ‘cos besides my Daddy, I’m the only boy. I got four sisters, and not countin’ the newborn, I’m the baby. It has it’s perks, but for the most part, I’m treated like a worthless child. Unless I’m on the field. Out there, they let me alone. My sisters try not to mess with me too much; they know if they get me in a bad mood that day, I might “accidentally” not bring enough food home for all of ‘em to share supper. I’ve only actually done it once when, Marey, the oldest, got me in trouble with Ma. She told her I s’posed to feed April (the newborn) when she knew clean ‘n’ well that Tuesday was her day. But deep down inside, I love my sisters, and I don’t wanna do too much to hurt ‘em. I been working on the farm since birth. One day, I waddled myself out to the barn and Daddy let me hold the bucket while he milked Betsy, one of our three cows: the nice one. Ever since Lizzie died, I go out to the chicken coop when I need to think. It’s the farthest thing away from our house; right on the edge of our property. Daddy hides his motorcycle back there and I usually sit on the old leather upholstery and feed seed to the chickens. If I tell you this, you might think I’m crazy, but I talk to the chickens, and

sometimes they talk back. It makes me feel like I’m back with Lizzie again on the hot summer day. So, this part of the story came right back to Lizzie again. I tried to talk about me, but like I said, this here story ain’t about me. It’s about Elizabeth Collins Juniper.

Three Lizzie’s grammy and all my sisters constantly threw out suggestions that Lizzie and I should date back when she was alive. Now they don’t say anything. But you can hear it from me, I never had one romantic feelin’ for that girl: my best friend of fourteen years. I reckon I can say that she was right pretty, I’ll give ya that. Her and her family were the only ones in all of Round Top, Texas with red hair. But her hair was the only natural, suntanned-red. The rest of her family was bright fire red, on account ‘a Billy Jo wanted to practice her hair dye skills for beauty school. Lizzie’d had none of it. Her eyes were like that cat down the street in the old Jefferson house: bright, shining, gold-ish green. The determination in her eyes out on the fields woulda made her Daddy awful proud. I bet you anything, Lizzie was the only girl at our school who didn’t own her Sunday best. That’s right, she even showed up to church with those raggedy farm clothes hangin’ offa her. The other girls at school didn’t like her all too much, but she didn’t mind a wink. Our mamas are best friends. Ever since birth, they been like udders to a cow, them two, says my Grandpappy. They were even pregnant at the same time! I don’t know ‘bout y’all, but that’s a lil creepy to me. Don’t they want one day without one another? Guess not, on account a’ any minute they’re not together, they’re yappin’ away on the phone. When I was born, Ma named me after Lizzie’s great grand daddy: Harold Juniper Collins. And when Lizzie was born (just two days later), her Ma named her after my Greatgran: Elizabeth Collins Juniper. Pretty darn scary if you ask me.

Four Lizzie was acting right strange before her death. I was the only one who noticed it, though. The rest of her family said it was just her becoming a woman. It just won’t like her. But I knew whose fault it was: Ray Jenkins. Lizzie loved the attention he gave her. She started wearing skirts and lettin’ Billy Jo do her makeup. It just won’t natural. I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. She was bound and determined to have her baby in a hospital and not in the barn or on the kitchen floor like the rest of the women in town. So, Mrs. Juniper drove down South Washington Street like a wild woman. I rode with Daddy and Ray. I’ll tell ya, that was the slowest, quietest car ride in my whole country boy life. Daddy drove, Ray was in the passenger’s, and I was sittin’ in the bed of the pick-up, my head popped in through the window (hoping to catch some conversation). All I could do was keep lookin’ back and forth at ‘em. Daddy kept his eyes glued on the road. He looked angry, and boy he was—at Ray. Daddy became Lizzie’s daddy, too, when her’s died. Lizzie was practically his fifth daughter, and any man who knocked her up. . .well, let’s just say it ain’t good timing. But more than angry, he was afraid. He knew she was too young to be a mama; he was just the only one who ain’t said nothin’ about it, but he knew. Now that I look back to that time, Daddy didn’t say right much at all about—or even to—Lizzie and the baby, or anythin’ else for that matter. Ray looked more nervous than anythin’. He knew if he said the wrong thing or acted the

wrong way, Daddy would open a fresh can of whoop-up on him, and he’d be walkin’ down South Washington. That’s how tense he was. Mrs. Juniper was dancin’ around in the lobby when we got there. Lizzie’s contractions—whatever they were, I just heard a doctor say that—were getting worse and worse and the nurse wouldn’t give her a room. I remember the look on Lizzie’s face; it was all scrunched up like that time Daddy gave her a lemon as a joke, and she was sweating bullets. At first, I had a gut feelin’ that something was wrong, but I ain’t never seen a girl havin’ no baby, so I reckoned it was a woman thing. About twelve hours passed. Daddy, Ray, and I sat in the lobby. I played with tissue I’d picked up in the bed of the truck(it was ripped into about ten pieces at this time), Ray was hunched over, twiddlin’ his thumbs, and Daddy just stared straight ahead. Mrs. Juniper was in the room with Lizzie and Ma was camped out by the door. Thirty minutes later, the bustle of the hospital had slowed and the sound of crickets and random hospital announcements were the only noises. Daddy was still silent, and Ray had moved to the farthest seat away from Daddy. He was still twiddlin’ his thumbs. I remember thinkin’ he probably felt guilty right about now. A seventeen year old boy from Austin knockin’ up a twelve year old small town girl don’t go over too good with the folks. But Ma thinks the world of him—she thought Lizzie’d never have a kid with her boy-ish traits—and convinced Mrs. Juniper to let him come. It was five more long hours before the doctor came out, followed by Mrs. Juniper, crying into her hankerchief. He slowly walked past me and whispered something to Daddy. I saw a single tear fall down his face. Only one thing right here and now could make Daddy, “Hard-As-A-Rock” Jon Collins, cry. I felt the whole world slow down as I put the pieces together, like God was tuggin’ at the reigns before it finally stopped. . . That was the most emotion I’d seen out him, besides anger. I stood up, the world still paused, and walked out of the hospital. The town was quieter. It seemed like everyone and everything had shut up—and it likely shouda—so I had nothing to distract me. It took me two hours before I reached the chicken coop. I layed down on the hay and fell asleep. I didn’t have to be told what happened. I knew she was dead. Elizabeth Collins Juniper. . .dead.

Five Susanna Alice Juniper was born June 25th, 1997 at 5:06 A.M. But Lizzie only made it four more hours. I over heard Ma tellin’ Daddy just exactly how it happened(like I needed to hear the details): “Jon, it’s called Postpartum Hemorrhage. After Susanna was delivered, the uterus would normally contract. The contractions help compress the bleeding vessels in the area where this membrane thing was attached. If the uterus don’t contract strongly enough, the blood vessels bleed like there ain’t no tomorrow. The doctor says that they usually lose a little more than a quart and then stop, so they left her untreated. But then, she kept losin’ blood and her blood pressure dropped and she was sent into shock. The shock is what killed her. The shock, Jon! Oh, our poor Lizzie! They says they ain’t never seen nothin’ like it, Jon!” Now, bein’ a boy and all, that was just a lil too much. I started feelin’ sick to my stomach and went to go lay down. My room is right past Ma and Daddy’s, so Ma had to see her poor baby boy walkin’ to his room, bent over, with his hand clutchin’ his stomach. My stomach ache left a little over an hour ago, but I stayed in bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to Lizzie. I’m laying here, complaining about my stomach

when she was bleeding to death in front of at least five doctors who wouldn’t do nothin’: suffering. I feel a scratchy feeling in my throat. I get up and pour myself a cup of water. It doesn’t go away. Seven cups of water later and my throat is still bone dry and sandpaperlike. I get frustrated, crush my cup, and go lay back in bed. My throat is all I can seem to think about. For a solid fifteen minutes, all I think is “Go away, stupid soar throat,” and then I think about Lizzie: dead. I wonder if she ever had a sore throat. I bet she did. She’s human; of course she did. I forget about my throat. It don’t matter. In the span of my life, this’ll happen again, so why bother with it now? It’ll only come back. I know I’ll have a sore throat again someday. But Lizzie never will.