Hope on the Inside

by Marie Bostwick

  “But,” he said grudgingly, “I’m starting to see Hope’s point. Our new place is nice but . . . a little sterile.”

  “Maybe you could paint?” Kate suggested.

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, though his tone indicated he hadn’t been thinking very hard about it. “Maybe someday. But I enjoy helping you out, Kate. I forgot how much I like fixing stuff and making stuff. Feels good to get to the end of the day and know I actually accomplished something real, something I can see and touch, that will last.”

  Rick smacked his big hand onto the stair railing, gripped it tight, and then tried to give it a shake, smiling when he couldn’t.

  “I’m glad. But are you sure you won’t let me pay you?” Kate asked, her voice almost pained. “At least a little? You’ve done so much for me and all you’ve gotten in return is lunch and a few cookies.”

  “What are you talking about? Your cookies are amazing. And, thanks to the exercise I’ve been getting while knocking off your projects, I’ve been able to work them off plus a few extra pounds to boot. Not a minute too soon,” he said, slipping his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. “My pants were getting so tight they were starting to cut off my circulation.”

  “Well. You do look to be in a bit better shape than when we first met,” Kate admitted. “But that’s hardly what I’d call a fair trade for all your hard work.”

  “Hey, don’t discount the value of those cookies. Just like the ones my mom used to make. She was famous for them. Every holiday and family gathering, Mom would show up with this ugly avocado-colored plastic carrier she bought in the sixties, filled with cookies. She’d put it down in the middle of the table and they’d be gone in five minutes.

  “She shared all her recipes with me. Except that one. Always joked she would but not until she was on her deathbed. And then. Well . . .” Rick set down his empty coffee mug and picked up the hammer. “There wasn’t time. And anyway, I never thought to ask her. It didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “You miss her,” Kate said.

  “Yeah,” Rick said, his voice becoming hoarse. “I think I always will.”

  “As it should be. She was worth missing.” Kate laid her hand—delicate, small, and freckled from the passage of seventy-four summers—over Rick’s big, calloused paw. “I’ll always miss my Lyle. And aren’t we lucky, you and I, to have someone we loved so dearly and miss so much? There are lonely people all over who would give anything to be able to say that.”

  Rick swallowed hard and pressed his lips together tight before nodding and drawing the corners of his mouth upward into a ragged smile.

  “You know something?” Kate said, her countenance brightening. “I just figured out how I can repay you. That cookie recipe? It’s been my secret too, for fifty-five years.

  “On the night before Lyle and I got married, my mother came into my bedroom, looking white as a sheet, told me everything she knew about sex, which turned out not to be much”—she laughed—“and then handed me a piece of her good pink stationery with the secret family cookie recipe written out on it.”

  Rick grinned. “The recipe was part of your premarital counseling?”

  “Oh yes. And believe me, it turned out to be a lot more useful than the rest of my mother’s advice. Lyle and I buried many a hatchet over a plate of those cookies.

  “I always assumed I’d pass it on to my children. But, since we never had any,” she said with a small bow of her head, “I’m going to pass it on to you.”

  Rick’s lips went flat. He swallowed again before speaking.

  “Well . . . Thank you. I’d like that.”

  Kate smiled. “I’ll go inside and copy it down for you.”

  “Considering the size of the bonus,” Rick said, fishing some nails from a pocket of his tool belt, “I’d better make an extra-good job of these steps.”

  “Maybe you should leave them until next time,” Kate replied. She lifted her eyes skyward, examining a band of ominous gray clouds. “Looks like it’s going to start raining any second.”

  Rick placed a level on top of the next board, eyeing it carefully. “It’s all right. I’m just about finished here. A little rain never hurt anybody, especially the son of an Irishman. You could be standing in a deluge and my dad would call it ‘a fine, soft day.’”

  Rick positioned a nail, then drove it flush with the top of the board in three precise but powerful blows before pulling another from his belt.

  “When I was a kid, my mom shooed me out of the house to play every afternoon, rain or shine. And if I’d complain about it, she’d push me right out the door, saying, ‘Go on, then. You won’t melt. You’re not made of sugar.’”

  Kate threw back her white head and barked out a hearty laugh.

  “Do you know something? My mother used to say the exact same thing. I guess we’re neither of us too sweet then, are we?”

  “Guess not.”

  Kate went inside the house to copy out the recipe. Rick took a sip of coffee and got back to work. When the clouds split and the rain began to fall, soft and fine, he lifted his head and grinned, then drove in another nail.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, with a sore right arm and an index card of cookie ingredients and baking instructions written in Kate’s fine, clear script in his back pocket, Rick got into his truck and headed home, feeling better than he had in a long time. But the feeling was short-lived.

  As he pulled into the parking lot, Rick saw McKenzie’s car backed into his spot. McKenzie was standing in front of the car, her backside resting on the hood and her arms crossed over her chest.

  For a moment, Rick was confused by her presence, worried, thinking something bad had happened to her. Or to Hope. He parked in one of the visitors’ spots, hopped out of his truck, and walked toward her, his stride lengthening with every step.

  She knew the code for the elevator and had a key to their front door. Why was she waiting for him outside?

  “Kenz? What’s up? Everything okay?”

  McKenzie uncrossed her arms and shook her head.

  “I’m waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for you for three hours. Where’ve you been? Playing golf? That’s what you told Mom you were going to do. Is that what you wear to play?” Her withering glance took in his blue jeans, ripped at the knee, and the red and black plaid of his worn flannel shirt. “Where are your clubs?”

  Rick’s expression hardened into indignation.

  “What are you doing here, McKenzie? Did your mother put you up to this?”

  “No,” she spit, as though the very suggestion was offensive. “Mom called and asked if you were with me. She was worried about you. Said she’d called your cell about ten times, but you never picked up and never called back.”

  Rick pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and frowned. There was a long list of unanswered calls, five from Hope, three from McKenzie.

  “Guess I had the ringer on silent,” he muttered before shoving it back into his pocket.

  “So? Where’ve you been?” McKenzie repeated, her chin jutting toward his. “I went upstairs when I got here, wanted to make sure you hadn’t had a heart attack or something. Your clubs are sitting in the foyer. By the way, that set of clubs you bought off craigslist? They’re ladies’ clubs.

  “Where’ve you been, Dad? Because I know you weren’t at the golf course. Have you ever played a round? Have you ever even hit a ball?”

  “What I do,” he said, setting his jaw, his voice low and sharp, his eyes smoldering like two blue-hot coals, “and where I go is nobody’s business but my own. You’re way out of line here, Kenz.”

  “Dad. How could you?” McKenzie’s voice cracked as she grabbed at his arm. “You and Mom have always been—”

  “McKenzie, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t have to explain myself to anybody. Not to your mother. And certainly not to you.”

  He pulled his arm from her grip and pushed past her, striding toward
the lobby doors. “You’re in my parking spot. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Chapter 19

  Talia was getting so big that supporting her weight made Mandy’s leg go numb. But she wouldn’t have removed the child from her lap for anything. Instead, Mandy shifted Talia to the other leg and squeezed her even tighter.

  “This is amazing,” Mandy said, scanning Talia’s most recent report card. “I’m so proud of you, baby. So proud.”

  Mandy kissed the top of her head. Talia looped her arm around her mother’s neck.

  “I’m proud of you, Mami. You had a good report card too.”

  “Well, not as good as yours,” Mandy said. “I barely squeaked by on my algebra midterm, but as long as I get my diploma, that’s good enough for me.”

  “You will, Mami.”

  “Hope so,” Mandy said, kissing her daughter’s head once again, breathing in the smell of Talia’s apple-scented shampoo. “And after I graduate, get out of here, and find a job, we’ll be together all the time. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” said Talia, nestling her head on Mandy’s shoulder. “How much longer?”

  “Not long now. About six months.”

  Mandy’s mother, Lola, who accompanied Talia to the prison every two weeks and had been sitting in a folding chair on the far side of the room, glanced at her watch and coughed.

  “We should get going.”

  Mandy looked at the clock that hung on the wall of the visitors’ room. “We’ve still got five minutes.”

  “I know,” Lola said, reaching down and picking her purse up off the floor, “but I need to get Talia to her soccer game. Come on, Talia.”

  Talia hopped off Mandy’s lap.

  “It’s our turn to bring the snacks—orange slices and Rice Krispie bars. I’m playing goalie today!”

  Every minute spent with Talia was precious to Mandy, a reminder of the happiness they would share if she worked hard and stayed on the right path. She wanted to protest their early departure but decided to hold her tongue. They’d had such a nice visit; why end it on a sour note and upset Talia by starting an argument?

  Besides, it looked like her mother had problems of her own. She’d hardly made eye contact with Mandy since they arrived. Instead, she sat in her chair without speaking, fiddling with her charm bracelet, the way she always did when something was bothering her. Though Mandy didn’t ask, she figured the something was probably her dad.

  She hadn’t been able to see it when they first got involved, but Marcus was so much like her own dad. Both were impatient, demanding, and controlling, saw the world as a zero-sum, “us versus them” proposition, and were 100 percent certain that they were right, always.

  Enrique, Mandy’s father, was less reckless than Marcus. He didn’t use or sell drugs and didn’t hit women. But he knew how to wound without ever striking a blow.

  When she got out of prison, she intended to be a much better person—steady, dependable, mature, understanding, and kind. She might as well start practicing now by giving her mom a break. After all, if Lola hadn’t been willing to make the bimonthly trek to prison with Talia in tow, Mandy would hardly ever have seen her daughter. Enrique had never come to see her, not once.

  “So, which are you more excited about?” she asked Talia, kneeling down to zip the little girl’s jacket. “Eating Rice Krispie treats or playing goalie?”

  Talia tipped her head to one side and opened her mouth into a wide, gap-toothed smile as she considered the question.

  “Uhh . . . Rice Krispie treats!”

  “Thought so.”

  Mandy laughed and looked up at her mother, wanting her to see how completely adorable Talia was, but Lola was standing there with her own coat already buttoned, purse clutched in her hand, eyes cast down, and left foot tapping the floor, obviously in a hurry to get going.

  Mandy gave Talia one more kiss, then got to her feet and hugged her mother and then kissed her on the cheek.

  “Thanks for coming, Mami. I know it’s a hassle, but I really appreciate it.”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  Lola felt stiff in her arms. Mandy took a step back to examine her face.

  “Mom? You okay?”

  Lola bobbed her head. “Yes, fine. It’s just—We need to get going. The traffic will be terrible. Talia, say goodbye to Mami now or we’re going to be late.”

  “Bye, Mami.”

  “Bye-bye, chiquita. Be a good girl, okay? Oh, wait. Hang on a second,” Mandy said, reaching into the pocket of her khakis. “I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you.”

  Talia’s face lit up. “What is it? A present?”

  “Uh-huh. Hold out your arm.”

  Talia complied and Mandy tied the present, a small bracelet of blue beads woven together with white cording, onto her daughter’s slender wrist.

  “Do you like it?” she asked. “I made it for you in my arts and crafts class.”

  Talia stared down at the bracelet with shining eyes. “It’s beautiful, Mami. Did you get an A?”

  Mandy laughed. “Yeah, I did. Guess I’m better at art than algebra, huh?”

  “Talia, we have to go.”

  Lola took the child’s hand, opened the door, and nodded to the guard who was waiting to escort them off the grounds. Mandy stepped out into the corridor to watch them go.

  It never got easier. In fact, the closer she came to her release, the harder it became. But she held it together for Talia’s sake. For her own too, she supposed. Tears wouldn’t do either of them any good, would they?

  And, as the chaplain had reminded her only the week before, she was winning the battle against time. All she had to do was work hard, keep her head down, stay out of trouble, and wait. She was close now. So very close.

  Soon Mandy would be the one walking down the corridor, through the gates, and into the free, fresh air. Talia would be standing outside, waiting for her, and they would never be separated, ever again.

  Thinking of this, Mandy swallowed back tears and forced a smile. Just before turning the corner, Talia looked over her shoulder and raised her hand over her head.

  “Bye, Mami. Thanks for my pretty bracelet. I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  Chapter 20

  On Monday morning, Hope walked to the front of the classroom, dumped a bag of soft, lusciously colored balls of wool out on the center table, and told the women they could pick whatever colors they wanted.

  She didn’t need to say it twice.

  Within seconds, they were gathered round the table, oohing and aahing over the wool, comparing and trading colors, giggling like girls as they squeezed the balls of roving tight into their fists only to see them spring back into shape the moment they opened their fingers. Just like that, everything changed. Hope didn’t understand it, not yet, but she felt so happy she could have cried.

  “What is it? Where did you find it?”

  “It’s wool roving,” Hope replied. “My sister and I went to a sheep festival in Idaho over the weekend. One of the vendors was selling it and I just about bought out her entire stock. Isn’t it gorgeous? Hand-dyed.”

  “Mrs. C.?” Deedee asked, raising her hand. “What’s a sheep festival?”

  “Well, it’s . . . a festival. . . .” Hope paused, trying to think how to explain it. “Like a fair, a celebration of all things sheep and the ranching lifestyle. There was a big parade of sheep through the town—that was really fun. And sheepdog trials with prizes for the dogs who were fastest at rounding up a flock of sheep and herding them into a pen—”

  “I saw that in a movie once,” one of the women, Tonya, said, sounding pleased to have made the connection. “The one about the pig who thinks it’s a sheepdog.”

  “That’s right,” Hope said. “I saw that too.”

  “What else did they have?” Tonya asked, leaning closer, as if she wanted to be sure she didn’t miss anything.

  “Well, there were demonstrations on dyeing and spinning yarn and a bunch
of other crafting classes. There were lectures too.”

  “Lectures? You mean like going to school?”

  “Not quite like that. My sister made us leave before it was light so we would get there in time for a lecture on the secret life of sheep ranchers. But she wasn’t quite as interested in the lecture as in checking out the rancher who was giving it. She’s decided her future husband should be a manly man—tall, dark, handsome, and knows how to sit a horse.”

  “Oh, honey. Me too.” Tonya heaved a wistful sigh that was echoed by several others in the group. “So? Did she find one?”

  “Not quite,” Hope said. “The man who gave the lecture was about twice her age. But he was very nice. We sat next to him at the Farm to Table dinner.”

  “Farm to Table?” Tonya asked. “What’s that mean?”

  Tonya, a string bean of a woman with gray hair that she wore in a ponytail, had missed the rise of the locavore food movement. And so many other things. Not for the first time, Hope thought about what different worlds she and her students came from.

  There were differences from woman to woman, but, on the whole, it seemed to Hope that their exposure to the world had been limited even before prison. On the one hand, they hadn’t done, or seen, or heard of so many things that Hope thought of as commonplace. On the other hand, she was pretty sure that they had seen, and done, and been exposed to all kinds of things that she had no clue about. Things that, perhaps, no one should have to experience.

  It made her feel strange, presumptuous, and overprivileged and spoiled, to be telling them about her weekend and a fancy Farm to Table dinner. In truth, it hadn’t been that fancy. They’d eaten off paper plates at picnic tables, but the food had been undeniably delicious. But the women seemed deeply interested in her story, almost mesmerized. Eight pairs of eyes were glued to her, waiting for her to continue, as if she were a messenger from a distant land, their only point of contact with the outside world.