Superfund

by FRANCES DAVIS

Bethany could feel the baby inside, like a seed putting out root hairs, looking for fertile ground. She leaned her belly against the sink and stared at the mustard-covered hill across from the house, rounded and golden as a toasted marshmallow.

The road in front of the house was empty. The town of Carmona was way too quiet: a few blocks of frame houses flaking paint, a dilapidated apartment building, one restaurant. The rent was good, though. Bethany wondered if the abandoned toxic waste site nearby accounted for the low rent. She longed for Santa Helena, its coffee shops and mall and the Dollar Store job that kept her busy.

The yellow hillside beckoned. A hike through wild mustard, sunny petals frosting her clothes, would gin up her mood. Her mother’s expression. Rose was a fan of ginning things up, usually with wine. Rose had seen single motherhood as a way to explore the world on her own terms. Dauntlessly cheerful, she’d hiked up her bright layered skirts to shoot baskets with neighborhood kids and dragged Bethany to drum circles, organic gardening classes, and different churches in search of a straight-talking preacher.

Bethany pushed away from the sink, gathered her brown ponytail into two bunches and yanked them apart, tightening the elastic. Time to make a pie in celebration. Roughnecks worked long hours, but her husband Tyler was supposed to get off early today.

Hunched at the kitchen table, Bethany poked a finger at the cold apple pie and licked off the loosened flakes. The sweet scent of mock orange drifting through the open window made her want to cry. Springtime and she was full of growth, bursting, eager to share her news with Tyler.

She carried the dinner dishes to the sink and sluiced them with hot water, glancing out the dark window. She wanted her mother, not the one she had now, but the silly, warmhearted, wine-tippling mom who looked at obstacles as foothills you had to cross to get to the interesting mountains beyond. But Rose wasn’t available. At age fifty-eight, Rose was in a facility losing herself, letting her memories fly away like migrating birds. The last time Bethany had seen her, Rose had mistaken her for a chorus buddy and wanted to sing gospel songs with her. 

Bethany was still in the kitchen when Tyler stamped his boots on the mat and came inside, trailing a gas station odor. “Sorry,” he said, giving her a loopy grin. “Got held up.”

She followed him into the bathroom and held out her arms to catch the oil-begrimed clothes he stripped off. His naked body, pale torso and ruddy sun-burned neck, made her want him. She traced a finger down his spine as he climbed into the shower, finishing with a pat on the rear. Heat rose in her thighs. 

“Just you wait, girl,” he said, pulling the shower curtain closed.

“Why so late, Ty?”

“Hung out with the guys,” Tyler said over the drumming of the shower.

“You didn’t go to a cock fight, did you?” She knew where they held those things—down an anonymous dirt road a few miles away.

He stopped slapping the washcloth around.

“You didn’t, did you?” Tyler at a cock fight meant Tyler gambling and losing.

He gave a watery snort. “So what if I did?”

“You promised, Ty.” The one time he’d taken her to one of those gory spectacles, she had run back to the dirt parking lot and vomited. A blood sport. How could he like something like that?

“One of the guys didn’t know where to go, so I took him.”

“How much did you lose?” Tyler thought hanging out with Rudy, who raised game cocks, would give him an edge. He came home talking about Kelsos and Roundheads and which ones were the fastest fighters, but he still lost.

“Stop ragging on me, Beth.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?” The water stopped, and Tyler threw back the curtain to grab a towel. “Hey, babe, that’s great.” Steam flowed into the room.

“Are you happy?” She stepped back as he toweled his head and chest. 

“Yeah, of course. What we’ve been waiting for, right?” He bent to work on his legs, and she touched his back again. He looked up. “So how long? I mean, when’s it due?”  

She shrugged. “Early fall. Why?”

“They may be cutting back, that’s all.” He swiped the sink mirror with the towel.

“But your job’s safe, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said, peering at his stubbled jaw in the glass. “They’re gonna try to frack some wells.”

She laid her hand on his shoulder, gathering warmth. “You can still work on those, can’t you?”

“Yeah but, you know, permits and all that bullshit.” He turned to face her. “It’ll take a while. Plus enviros coming out of the woodwork, trying to stop everything.”

“Oh, Tyler.”

“I can always find work, honey. Maybe go back to truck driving. No worries. Seriously.”

He pulled her to his naked body, and she felt his heat from her neck to her knees.

Bethany’s stomach roiled with upset the next day. She grabbed her laptop and walked two blocks to the Branding Iron, which had Internet. The café was big and drafty, with a short counter and a scatter of tables that were mostly empty during the day. Saturday nights the place filled up with ranchers and field-workers who crowded in for ribs and enchiladas.

A couple of older men bent over their coffee at the counter. Connie, the waitress, nodded as Bethany chose a corner table and opened her computer. Connie let her fiddle with her laptop as long as she wanted, sometimes even sitting down for a friendly chat. Bethany checked some Facebook posts, then the bank balance. She gave a groan and typed in a site for popular baby names.

Connie came over. “That didn’t sound good.” She wore jeans and a sloppy T-shirt with a branding iron printed on the front. A pink bandana held back her graying hair.

Bethany frowned at the keyboard. “Can I ask you something?”

Connie lifted her chin.

Bethany glanced at the two men and lowered her voice. “Is there any way to keep Tyler from betting? I mean does Rudy have any influence?”

On windy days, the town rang with the rooster crows from Connie’s husband’s stag pens lined up regular as a checkerboard out by the railroad tracks. Tyler loved strolling the lines with Rudy, discussing the strengths of the solitary roosters in each pen.

Connie shook her head. “Rudy’s the same. A bet’s like candy before the show. Sometimes he bets against his own cocks.”

“It’s awful, watching those roosters slash each other to death.”

Connie tapped her bandana. “It’s in their heads, like a sickness. They all got it, even those two guys,” she said, gesturing at the men. “They love the fight. Maybe they let the birds fight, they don’t give you and me a hard time.”

“But Tyler keeps losing money and now we’re having a baby,” Bethany said, rubbing her belly. She felt like collapsing on the table.

Connie pulled up a chair and sat down. “You want a sweet roll?”

Bethany shook her head. “My stomach kind of hurts.”

I’ll get you some té de menta. “Boy or girl?”

“I don’t know yet. I wanted to look up some names.” She frowned at the computer screen. “What do you think of Damon?”

Connie lifted a corner of her lip. “Find out what they mean. Before you choose. Consuelo, that means consolation.”

“You’re good at that,” Bethany said. “Consoling.”

Connie’s eyes went to an old Elks Rodeo poster on the wall. “People bring things in here,” she said. “You know, their troubles. More in the old days. Things are better now.” She planted her elbows on the table. “Bethany. What does that mean?”

“It’s from the Bible. Mom said she was trying to be a Baptist when she named me. But I never really thought about it.” She tapped in her name and leaned forward to read. “It was a town . . . oh no.” She grimaced. “It means house of affliction or house of figs. What was Mom thinking?”

“Maybe she liked figs?”

Nausea took up residence in Bethany’s belly. Coffee tasted like poison; cereal made her stomach heave. Her body felt ransacked, like an invading army had passed through. She wondered if Rose had named her Bethany because she’d suffered the same grief carrying her.

She tried to walk the affliction away, hiking the hills farther out from town. Sun-baked grass crackled underfoot where yellow mustard had waved. She waded through wild oats and brome, following cow trails cutting the hillsides in concentric rings. Hearing the rumble of a tractor, she topped a rise to spot a pair of bulldozers working below. Behind a perimeter fence, the land was scoured to brown earth. Broken tree trunks lay in a heap like kindling. Bulldozers scraped soil into trenches cut into dirt terraces. A black pond lay at the center, dank reeds sagging inward. Bethany covered her mouth with her hand and fled.

She carried her laptop back to the Branding Iron. “I saw it, Connie, the waste site. It’s still there.”

Connie lowered herself into a chair. “You’re not supposed to go up there.”

“It looked active,” Bethany said, opening her laptop. “Bulldozers were filling trenches and there was a pool of ugly black water.”

“It’s a bad history,” Connie said, glancing at two couples eating lunch at a nearby table. She lowered her voice. “We don’t like to talk about it.”

“It looked completely dead,” Bethany muttered. “I was afraid of the air.”

“They poisoned the land, those people that had it. A long time ago.”

“So why are they still out there?”

“It’s a Superfund.” Connie pushed herself up from the table. “The government has it, cleaning up. Stay away from that place, Bethany.”

Bethany tapped Carmona Supersite into her laptop and began to read. Newspaper articles described convoys of trucks dumping hazardous waste from all over the state and toxic fumes that made the townspeople sick. She scanned a story about the rise in respiratory diseases, cancers and miscarriages and slammed the laptop closed.

“We have to move,” Bethany said, holding out the sheaf of papers she’d printed.

“There’s nothing wrong with the water here,” Tyler said, filling a glass at the sink.

“Five billion pounds, Tyler. Billion. That’s how much poison’s in the ground just two miles from here.”

“And you think that stuff’s somehow migrating into town?” He drank the water down and wiped his mouth.

“Water flows, Tyler. Underground.” She pointed to a line of print.  “Liquid contaminants can be particularly difficult to treat and remove. This is from the EPA.”

Her husband crossed his arms. “You think they’d let people live here if it wasn’t safe?”

“They did before. Nobody cared about this town. For years. People had to block the trucks with hay bales before anybody listened.”

“No way can we afford to move, Beth. My job’s about to end.”

Bethany narrowed her eyes. “They started it, you know, those oil companies, dumping their sludge, then inviting the whole world in to trash the environment. Maybe it’s good not to work for those guys.”

“Are you crazy? You want us to starve? Us and baby?”

“The baby? You’re worried about the baby?” Bethany pulled out another sheet. “PCBs, they cause chronic brain damage. Organic solvents? Spinal bifida and heart defects. Arsenic and cadmium? Miscarriage and stillbirths.”

“Where do you get this stuff?” Tyler grabbed the papers and hurled them to the floor. “The baby’s going to be fine. Go see your doctor. He’ll tell you.”

She cradled her belly in her hands. It felt like a hot stone. “You better stay away from those cock fights, Tyler. We’re liable to be in for some big hospital bills.” 

He snorted. “We’ll get bottled water, OK?”

The doctor in Santa Maria recommended eating soda crackers before rising in the morning. The ultrasound looked fine, the baby’s heartbeat steady. She didn’t ask its sex. She didn’t want to know. Tyler complained about crumbs in bed and the bland food she cooked and couldn’t eat herself. Nothing she did helped. Nothing quieted the baby, which heaved against her insides like something trapped.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Connie told her.

“Not until this baby’s out, I won’t,” Bethany said, staring at her laptop. “At least it won’t be stillborn, the way it’s thumping around.” She edged her chair back from the table to rub her stomach. “Not like those babies back then.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “It’s past,” she said, setting down a metal teapot. “Almost thirty years now.”

“I read that it will never be cleaned up. And you told me yourself the land was poisoned. All they can do is keep it buried. It’s like a time bomb.”

Connie gave a hissing sigh and laid her hands flat on the table. “You think we don’t know that?” She picked up the teapot and splashed water into Bethany’s mug. “We have to go on living our lives, Bethany.”

“I’m worried about the baby, that’s all.”

Connie shrugged. “You have a baby, you take a chance. But I told you things are better now. Just fine. My niece had a baby boy last month. You know, Maria, who lives near the school.”

Bethany sniffed the tea. “I read they had to send kids home from school because of the toxic fumes.” 

“Go see Maria. There’s no smells around there. She has a nice baby boy.”

Bethany set her mug down. “Mint tea doesn’t help.”

“You’re carrying the baby low,” Connie said. “Maybe that’s what’s bothering you.” She leaned in to peer at the laptop screen. “Pink Stork Tea. Why don’t you try that?”

“Tea isn’t going to fix what’s wrong,” Bethany said.

Bethany found her mother dozing in a wing chair, a tangled bit of crochet in her lap. Bethany touched her shoulder.

Rose looked up. “Is it bingo time?”

“Mom, it’s me, Bethany.”

Her mother’s hands twisted the purple yarn. “I can’t do this.”

Bethany looked down at her mother’s still nimble fingers. Once Rose had wielded crochet hooks like an artist, looping yarn into intricate patterns and swirls of color. Bethany still had a sea green afghan, metallic bits of turquoise, violet, and gold flecking it like sea glass. She wished she could wrap that afghan around Rose and take her away. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead.

“It’s OK, Mom, you’ve done enough already.”

Rose looked up with a smile. “That’s nice,” she said.

Bethany stepped back to frame her belly with her hands. “I’m pregnant, Mom. See? I’m carrying your grandchild. Right here.”

Rose looked confused. “No, no, I don’t have any of those.”

“You will though.” Bethany took her mother’s hand and pressed it against her belly. “You can feel the baby moving.”

“Pregnant,” Rose announced. She leaned closer, her hand moving over Bethany’s stomach in a slow massage. “Sweet baby girl.”

“You think it’s a girl?”

“Babies are always better,” Rose said brightly.

“Better than what?”

“Better than . . .” Rose dropped her hand to frown in concentration. “. . . than us.”

Bethany felt dizzy. She wished she could sit down. Her mother was right. Babies were the very best things people made. She cradled her belly protectively, the baby still safe inside, sealed off from a dangerous world.

“I had a baby girl once,” Rose said.

“That’s me. Bethany, your daughter.”

“You’re my daughter?” 

“Yes. And soon you’ll have a grandbaby.”

“Oh, I love babies.” Rose reached for Bethany’s hand and stood. “Can we leave now?”

“No, Mom. But I’ll come back and see you. I’ll bring the baby.”

“Bring the baby here,” Rose said.

Bethany put her arms around her mother. Rose rested her head against Bethany’s cheek. “You’re my daughter.”

“I’m your daughter.” Bethany smoothed her mother’s hair. “I need you, Mom.”

“I’m here. I’m here,” Rose said.

“Listen to the doctor,” Tyler said. “Just because you feel bad doesn’t mean the baby’s not OK.” He laid his hands on her belly. “Look how it’s bouncing around in there. Healthy and strong. A survivor.”

“You can’t tell a thing from the outside,” Bethany said. “The doctor can’t either. It’s what’s happening inside that counts, and I’m in charge of that.”

“Oh, please,” Tyler said, throwing his hands up.

“You don’t know what happened here, how the poison seeped in and deformed babies and gave people cancer.”

“Drop the crazy talk now, Bethany. The baby’s going to be great.” He stomped away.

When Bethany’s labor started, Connie drove her to the hospital in Santa Helena.

“Don’t leave me,” Bethany pleaded as Connie tugged her hand from Bethany’s grip.

“I have a job, honey. Try to relax. Soon you’ll have a beautiful baby.”

Bethany lost track of time. Her body cramped and contorted, wrung her into an alien thing she couldn’t recognize. “Get it out of me,” she yelled, using all her strength to push out the heaving rock.

Tyler arrived as the doctor held the baby up.

“I don’t want to see it,” Bethany cried, closing her eyes. She could hear it sputtering, spitting like a cat. Then it wailed.

“Aw, look at her,” Tyler said. “Look at all the hair she has. Oh, Beth.”

Bethany opened her eyes. “It’s a girl?”

“Deer-See?” Tyler asked, as he shoved the wheelchair carrying Bethany and the pink-swaddled baby down the hospital corridor. “That’s what we’re calling her?”

“Dirce was a water nymph,” Bethany said. “The goddess of a spring.”

Her husband chuckled. “She’d better be a good swimmer.”

“Dirce Rebecca,” Bethany said. “From the Bible.”

A couple pushing a little girl in a wheelchair came toward them, and Tyler stopped as they maneuvered around a cart. The woman looked serious and sad and familiar, someone Bethany had seen in the Branding Iron. She tried to give a sympathetic smile as they passed, the pale-faced little girl with a rainbow knit cap hugging her bald head, clutching a bear in her lap.

“Let’s go home,” Tyler said, shoving the chair toward the bright outside.

Dirce gave a jerk at the sudden light and squeezed her eyes closed. The air was hot and dry, oak leaves eddying in a warm breeze. Bethany looked down at her red-faced, perfect little Dirce, tiny fists balled over the pink blanket. She’d tried to give her daughter a good name, a talisman against danger. But danger would always lurk. You have a baby, you take your chances, Connie had said. The couple they met in the hallway had taken a chance, too; once they may have wheeled their perfect baby girl out into the sunlight just like her. A sudden gust stirred Bethany’s hair and fluttered the pink blanket. She pulled a flap over her daughter’s forehead and lifted her to hold her closer. She looked in the direction of Carmona, wondering what the wind carried.