She was reaching for the blow dryer when Darlene shrieked. “Vera, there’s that mouse again!” She pulled her feet up off the floor.
“That damn thing! Where’s that good-for-nothing cat? Tiger, get down here and earn your keep.” Vera kicked the leg of a nearby chair and a yellow tomcat opened one eye. She shook the chair again and he jumped down and prowled across the room. After a show of effort which included growling and tail lashing, he followed the mouse into a broom closet. Vera slammed the door and yelled, “I expect only one of you to come out of there.” Crisis handled, she resumed drying and brushing and, as though there had been no interruption, said, “Visiting your sister, I hear, in the Stephenson place.” Darlene edged closer.
“Hmm.” I’d given up on that one.
“Staying long?”
“Few weeks.”
Vera managed to light another cigarette while brushing and blowing. “What’s this I hear ‘bout you telling the N Club to start reading to little kids at the liberry? We’re just a small town, you know, not a big city like San Francisco. Don‘t have no money for every little whim.”
I nodded and the brush clipped my ear. “I understand about limited resources.”
“Oh, we have resources—liberry’s got plenty of books—but we don’t have money for no foolishness.”
“It shouldn’t cost much. We’re thinking of involving the merchants. Leland Goetzmann will help.”
“Oh, Leland. Well, if he’s in on this, it’ll be good. Have you met him? He has this really sexy Southern accent.” She jabbed my arm with her elbow.
“Hmm.”
“He’s so . . . so . . .”
“Southern?”
“Yeah.” She combed in silence for a few minutes before switching topics. “I’ve never been all that ways out to California but once we went to the Black Hills—the ones in South Dakota. Took the kids to see those presidents carved in a rock.”
“Hmm.”
“They have anything like that in California?”
“No, I don’t believe so. We have Disneyland, though—Mickey Mouse, Pluto . . .”
Velma interrupted. “But they’re not carved in a rock.” I admitted they weren’t, and she looked pleased with her vacation choice. Flush with success, she moved the conversation to the topic she’d been working her way toward. “Your sister’s pretty lucky to have someone that can come and stay with her in her time of need.” The brush slowed. “Cancer’s pretty scary.”
What? Andy was certain no one knew.
“What makes you think she has cancer?”
The brush stopped. “Well, don’t she? Mae Tilson saw her coming out of the doctor’s office down in Des Moines. The cancer doctor.” Score one for Vera. The brush resumed its pace. “Your sister don’t know that many people here. Keeps to herself.”
“She didn’t join the Neighborhood Club,” I admitted.
“That’s a fact. Guess she’s busy with her painting. Don’t get her hair done here in town.”
“Oh, well, she’s gone to this place in Des Moines for years. You know how it is when you get used to someone. She has to go down there on business every few weeks anyway.”
Vera sniffed, and I was irritated at myself for explaining.
The phone rang and Darlene reached for it. “Vera, do you have time for a blow job?”
“Sure, soon as I’m done here.”
Vera chuckled at my shocked expression. “Good old Agnes Rose. She always asks for a blow job when she wants a blow comb.” The curling iron replaced the dryer. “Saw you at the church supper the other night. Too bad about Elizabeth, ain’t it? Sure feel sorry for Esther.”
I tried to show interest without moving my head. She gave me a hand mirror and twirled me around so I could admire the finished work. It looked better than I’d feared, and she charged half what I usually paid. I handed her the money, moved a cat off my coat, and left, glad to be outside in the fresh air. I’d forgotten how personal small towns were. Perfect house or not, I wondered why Andy wanted to live here.
A yelp from indoors startled me, and I turned back. Through the window I could see the mouse marching out of the closet, closely followed by the cat. Both seemed to be smiling.
Nineteen
The next day Andy sent me to visit with Florence while she went to the Cherry Medical Center for lab work. She said she wanted to pick up some groceries too and could handle it by herself. I must not have bought the right kind of rice cakes.
She let me out in front of the bakery, and I walked close to a block from there to the dry goods store. Florence seemed delighted to see me—and the donuts. On the way to the break room she pointed to the Neighborhood Club meeting flyer posted by the cash register: JANE EMERLING NOTED CHILD AUTHORITY FROM SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA WILL SPEAK ON SETTING UP A CHILDRENS STORY HOUR.
I shuddered and wondered when I’d become a noted child authority. Probably when I met Florence—and moved to San Francisco.
Today Florence’s outfit was gold stretch pants, a crimson fringed blouse, and plastic earrings that looked like ripe cherries. I noticed her feet twinkling and realized I’d never paid attention to her shoes. These were red canvas covered in gold sequins—obviously chosen for workplace comfort.
Florence selected a powdered sugar donut and said my hair looked nice. We talked about Vera and the weather and the Neighborhood Club and the weather before Florence maneuvered the conversation to personal. “You married?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Widow.” I hated that word. “Marvin died two years ago.” My index finger traced designs in the crumbs. “The darned fool dropped dead of a heart attack on Christmas Day. We were playing cards, him, Andy, Chris—that‘s my daughter—and I. Marvin won the game and jumped up crowing about it. Then, thump, he was dead on the floor.” I sighed. “It was the only unkind thing he ever did.”
Florence reached over and squeezed my hand. “Sorry.” I clamped my lips together and nodded. “What about children? Any besides Chris?”
“No, just her. She lives in Raleigh and I see her maybe once a year. She tries to make it home for Christmas, but her job’s really demanding. Something in the Research Triangle. Don’t ask me what. I don’t understand it. She‘s divorced. No kids, so my chances for grandchildren aren’t good.”
“Raleigh, huh? Bob Stone’s father is from around there. You should talk to him. You’d have something, you know, in common.”
Did Florence really expect me to believe she didn’t know about the upcoming social event?
I murmured something that sounded like hmm before asking, “You have children? Oh wait, I’m sorry. You told me before that you didn’t. But you raised a nephew.”
She looked pleased. “Matt. His mother was, you know, my sister Nancy. She died in childbirth, not that common even forty-five years ago. I kept him for his first two years, and then his father remarried so he took him. The new wife never wanted him, and she was, you know, a terrible mother but what could I do? In all fairness, she wasn’t well. They said she had sleeping sickness.” She chuckled. “Guess that was a good name for it. Neighbors told me she made Matt sit outside while she entertained men. She was sleeping all right!” Her smile crumpled. “My sister was twenty-two when she died. Matt was twenty-five.”
“Was? You mean he’s dead?”
“Yeah. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. His wife’s a peach, though, and I see their kids, Ashley and Jeff, all the time. They’re great about including me in family stuff—you know, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Not their birthdays so much now that the children are older, but we do something for mine.” A smile bloomed on Florence’s face. “Ashley’s getting married the twenty-seventh of this month . . . or is it the twenty-eighth? Let me think. I know it’s a Saturday.” She fumbled through the Mid-Iowa Bank calendar hanging on the wall beside her. “Yes,
the twenty-eighth. Good thing we straightened that out. Wouldn’t want to go on, you know, the wrong day.”
After a brisk nod, she continued. “The groom’s a nice boy. Not from here, though—somewhere near Des Moines I think. He has a real good job.” She waited for me to ask what he did and then, pushing her cup to the side, leaned over the table. “Sells something somewhere,” she said, adding by way of explanation, “He travels.” She shook her head with a little sigh. “If only you’d come a month earlier, you could have gone to the shower her friends threw her. It was real nice.”
“Yes, I heard,” I said, recalling the thank you note. I almost apologized for arriving too late.
“Ashley has so many friends, but then, why wouldn’t she? She’s a beautiful girl, inside and out. We’re so blessed to have her. When I think she could have been, you know, like Elizabeth Stone, well, I just thank God for giving us Ashley.” Florence paused, apparently to assure the Almighty He’d made the right choice. “Poor Elizabeth. I feel sorry for her, I really do, even if she did bring all this trouble on herself. You know she and Ashley were friends. Well, sort of, Ashley’s a year older and much more mature. Elizabeth looked up to her.” Florence stared into the donut box.
“What about your grandson?” I asked.
“Jeff? He reminds me of Matt—except he sings in the church choir. Matt couldn’t carry a tune.” She gave a small, self-effacing smile. “Have to admit, Jeff must have gotten his voice from Regina’s side of the family. Her brother could be, you know, a professional. He won the Bill Riley Talent Show at the Iowa State Fair.”
“Hmm,” I said, thinking about the donuts. Had there been another powdered sugar in the box? Yes! I reached in and took it, casual as could be.
“You’ll come to the wedding of course, you and your sister,” Florence said as though the thought had just that moment occurred to her. Waving away my protests, she added, “I’m going to be grandmother of the bride. Hard to believe our little girl is old enough for marriage but kids grow up so fast.” She stirred creamer into her coffee, making certain it was completely dissolved. “Do you think you’d ever want to marry again?”
“No.” I shook my head for emphasis. “How about you?”
Florence dimpled. “Well, I might consider it.” She cleared her throat. “You know about Earl. We’re just friends, of course.” I nodded. Of course. “But, well, the other day I was in the Cherry Pit having coffee and pie—apple with cinnamon ice cream. It’s so good heated up just a little. Ever had it? You’ve got to try it. Anyway, Burt Dotson came in. He was in town for a welding class and asked if I knew anyone who needed any welding done so he could practice, and I said my charcoal grill’s thingamabob was loose, and he came over and, you know, fixed it.” She picked up another donut, applesauce with maple frosting, no sprinkles. Maybe she was cutting back on sugar. “I’ve known Burt for years,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “He was in fourth grade when I was in second, and he married Marlys McNulty—her mother was a Palmer—but she died five years ago. Marlys, not her mother. She’s been gone for twenty. Heart attack. Burt’s retired from the railroad and lives over in Alton, but that’s only nine miles away.” She refilled our cups and shoved the bakery box my direction. “Now I need to invite him for dinner as a thank you.”
“Obviously.”
“Uh-huh. The question is, what should I serve?”
With my mind more on pastry than what Florence was saying, I nearly missed the question. “Oh,” I said, pretending I’d been giving the menu serious thought. “Pot roast is always nice.” Ignoring my conscience, I took the last donut, pink, maybe cherry.
She frowned. “Sure, but I should probably, you know, use the grill he welded, so I was considering steak.”
“Good idea. Most men like steak.”
“Uh-huh. What kind?”
“Sirloin?”
“I was sort of planning on T-bone.”
I wiped the crumbs off the table and threw my napkin in the trash. “Excellent choice.”
Florence bobbed her head. “Okay, where should I buy it?”
I lifted my eyebrows. “SuperSaver? Isn’t it the only grocery store in town?”
“Well, they have that locker in Star Center. I thought maybe there.”
“Okay.” I drained my cup and started to rise.
“What else should I fix?” I sat back down. We decided on potatoes. Mashed, baked, scalloped? And salad. Lettuce, coleslaw, pasta? Creamy Italian dressing would be good but might contain garlic and well . . . How about dessert?
I never thought I’d lose interest in food but I was coming close.
“You can take the leftovers to Earl,” I said.
Florence’s face lit up. “Yeah, good idea. I can’t forget Earl.” As she stretched her arm toward the donut box—too late—I noticed her bare left ring finger. She saw me looking and grinned. “I made room, just in case. Checked Larry’s pension too. I won’t lose it if I remarry.” She giggled. “Good thing to know.”
Twenty
Thursday morning Andy and I sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. Well, I was eating; Andy was stirring her Cheerios. I half expected her to start arranging them on the table like Thelma did her cat food. The wait for surgery was wearing us down.
The phone rang and Andy dove for it. After hello, the eager expression faded from her face and the conversation ended. “That was Esther,” she said, pressing the disconnect button. “She’d planned to clean this afternoon but wants to change to tomorrow. Something came up.”
“What?”
Andy shrugged. “She didn’t say.”
“That’s okay. I’ll ask Florence.”
She gave me an exasperated look. “Jane, it’s none of our business.”
“I know.”
She shook her head. “Esther felt bad because today’s Win’s speech contest and now they can’t go.”
“Win? Oh, Winston, Bob’s son. They call him Win?”
“Yeah. The kids call him Whinny or Hoss.”
“Wow. Too bad they didn’t name him something else, Romanzo maybe. What about his grandfather? Can’t he be there?”
“Guess not. Someone has to stay home in case Elizabeth calls.”
I sat for a moment, an idea percolating, and then said, “Hey, why don’t we go? Come on, we can’t let him be the only contestant without family.”
She stared at me. “Well, he is a good kid, and for sure someone needs to show him a little attention.”
“Okay then, let’s go. Anyway, it sounds like more fun than watching rabbits hop across the yard. Maybe.”
An hour later we parked in a lot somewhere in the school’s back eighty. The one-story combination junior and senior high school covered an amazing amount of acreage. We trudged around three sides of the brick building, against the wind all the way, before locating the main entrance. Despite being dressed for what Andy claimed looked like a trip to the South Pole, my mind was focused on frostbite.
Inside was pandemonium with students, teachers, and parents from surrounding counties jamming the halls. The makeshift information desk by the door was manned by six or seven eager Cherry Glen students waving their arms and pointing to maps in what appeared to be a competition. Perhaps they earned points for directing the greatest number of visitors. People scurried off clutching maps only to return minutes later with baffled expressions and anxious looks at the clock on the wall.
Andy shouted our destination over the head of an elderly man with a cane, and a tall girl with glasses and a ponytail pointed to our right. “Down that way. See those black doors? When you get there you can’t go anywhere so keep going until you get to the auditorium. That’s where the one-act plays are so you don’t want to go there. What you want is room 305.”
Andy accepted a yellow map from the boy brandishing it between us. With start time only five minutes away, she took off a
t a trot and raced down a hallway stuffed with people while I trailed behind her long legs as usual. We slowed at room 304 and came to a complete halt in front of 306, which was guarded by a girl in a Cherry High School sweatshirt. “I don’t know where room 305 is,” she informed us with a smile that reduced the rest of the world to shades of gray. Her parents had spent a fortune on orthodontia. We pointed to 305 on the map although it seemed to have no relation to anything else in the building. “I’m not very good at speech stuff,” she said in a chirpy voice, the smile still on her face.
“I can see that, dear,” I said, “but I’m sure you have other areas of expertise.” Being out of breath made me testy.
The arrival of Win and his drama coach reassured us that, despite the directions, we were in the right place. The teacher, a well-fed woman with a reassuring smile and sensible shoes, acknowledged our presence with a brisk flick of her head. “I have to watch Heather’s storytelling now,” she told Win with a quick look at her watch. “Why don’t you just read through your poem one more time and I’ll try to be back before you’re on.” She hustled away.
Andy gave Win a little hug, which seemed to embarrass both of them, and introduced us. No Marlboro Man here, not yet anyway. Win was close to six feet tall, all arms, legs, and shoulder-length brown hair. He murmured a polite hello but concentrated on staring at the girl guard.
“You can’t go in,” she told everyone who stopped. At the end of the current session, after stale air and people had poured out of the room, she positioned herself in the doorway, arms spread as though she were defending the home basket. “No one’s allowed in there,” she kept repeating. The girl could work for the Secret Service.
“You know her?” I asked Win. “She’s cute.”
He stared at me as if I’d talked in tongues. “Yeah,” he said in a tone usually reserved for the Sistine Chapel. “Emma Keltheimer She’s really hot.” His eyes back on the girl, he added, “She’s a cheerleader.”
“Really? Jane was a cheerleader,” Andy said. “She was hot too.”
Goodbye, Miss February Page 10