Free Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian by Liz; Newall Page A

same time, maybe because of Sarah’s miscarriages. I tried to tell Jack and Sarah to go to a specialist, but Sarah seemed to think if she tried harder she could have one, and Jack, I think, had lost interest by then.
    Donna’s “just one” came out two. I helped deliver them. I never saw so much blood and mess. Being a doctor of psychology doesn’t really prepare you. It was a long time before I wanted to make love again. Of course, Donna was in no condition for a while. But even after she was, I kept dreaming those coiled up umbilical cords were wrapped around my throat. Not exactly an erotic dream. I finally got over it. Now I have that dream only once or twice a year.
    I feel it in here though, as if I’m drowning in a sea of females. Kate and Sarah and Donna and the twins all sucking the air right out of my lungs.
    I named one of the twins Charlotte after my mother, and Donna named the other one Scarlet because she said “It rhymes.” That’s they way they talk and hear around here. Donna can’t hear the difference between “pen” and “pin.” None of them can. They’re not too particular about getting the right pronunciation of a word as long as they understand each other. But some words they’re really picky about, especially if they consider them to be signs of manners.
    I still call Joe, Mr. Crawford to his face. Did the same with Vivienne. And that’s after knowing them all these years. Right after Donna and I were married, I called them by their first names. You would have thought I proposed incest. Donna said it just sounded a little strange, my being younger. She tried to get me to call them Mama and Daddy. That didn’t work either. Now the twins call them Mama C. and Daddy C. which is all right with the Crawfords. But they have their own standard of propriety and etiquette around here that is unlike the rest of the country, the world for that matter.
    That’s just the way these people are, and sometimes it takes an unencumbered observer to recognize it. Take the civil war at the fire station. When I was first dating Donna, all Mr. Crawford could talk about was the mess at the volunteer fire station, and his garden, of course. For several months, the community had a problem with fires—brush piles, open fields, vacant tenant houses, that sort of thing.
    Then one night, Mr. Crawford caught a boy in the middle of a field with a gasoline can in hand. The boy ran away but not before Mr. Crawford recognized him. The fire chief’s son. Then the proverbial ash can hit the fan. When Mr. Crawford reported his findings, the chief denied it, his son denied it, and half the firemen couldn’t believe it. The other half not only believed it but wanted the boy publicly whipped.
    I tried to explain to Donna’s father that whether the fire chief denied it or not, he’d keep an eye on his son and the fires would stop. And as for the boy, the fires were probably a plea for attention. But Mr. Crawford insisted that he had been called a liar and as far as the boy’s need for attention went, a public whipping would work just dandy. You can’t tell Joe anything. At least I can’t. Donna said, “It’s not what you say, Andrew, but the way you say it. Daddy doesn’t trust anyone with an accent.” As if he speaks the King’s English.
    Donna’s not that stubborn. She usually listens to reason. That’s more than I can say for the rest of them. Not that the Crawfords aren’t smart. At least the women, they all read. And Donna’s Aunt Kate is almost a scholar. I enjoy talking philosophy with Kate. She says literature is truer than history, and she has a point, although she oversimplifies. But she’s a little loosely woven sometimes, morally speaking. She goes through boyfriends as fast as she reads novels. Not the best example for Sarah and Donna, growing up. She hasn’t had one around lately.