KATELYN ELWESS
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IMPRESSIONS
In the morning it had rained, but by afternoon the weather had become unusually warm, leaving the air thick and damp. At dusk, Bill and Claudette returned from their walk with the twins. Bill parked the wagon on the lawn before lifting the children out of it, then joined his wife on the back porch. He pulled his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered her one. She shook her head and slipped off her sandals. He lit his own, drew it to his lips, and inhaled. “Quitting again?” he asked, smiling. Matilda grabbed a box of jumbo chalk behind him while Arnold stumbled over to the pile of leaves Bill had raked the day before and sat down. Matilda called for him to color with her, but he didn’t answer. Claudette wrapped her arms around her knees. “So what if I am?” “God help us all,” Bill said with a chuckle. He flicked his cigarette. His hands were weathered and stained with motor oil from the day’s work. He ran a small repair shop in town. He worked six days a week, but his hands perpetually looked like he’d just been under an engine. Claudette stared at them, frowning. She had quit smoking twice before. The first time was when three of the other nurses at work quit, about six months after Bill and Claudette began dating. She’d also started a juice fast the same day. She’d tried her best, but after three days, Bill found her with a menthol in one hand and a half-eaten Hershey’s bar in the other. The second time was when she found out she was pregnant with Arnold and Matilda. Claudette had a perfect pregnancy. She took prenatal vitamins and slept at least nine hours each night. She cut out sugar and ate more whole foods. She practiced yoga each morning, read every parenting book she could find and attended Lamaze classes. Even the delivery was seamless. After thirteen hours of labor and forty-six minutes of pushing, Claudette was cradling her new baby boy and girl. Pregnancy was bliss, she decided. The most difficult part was telling her husband. “Mommy,” Matilda called from the sidewalk, “I drew a cow!” “Chicken!” Claudette called back. To Bill, she said, “She gets them mixed up.” Bill snorted and lit another cigarette. “How?” “She’s six,” Claudette said, her voice sharp. “It’s not that big of a deal.” Still, she
Santa Fe Literary Review
15
