Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  “There’s that new place,” Gloria said, “by the Franklin grade school. No, wait, they tore that down. It’s by the high school.”

  “On the north edge of town, right?”

  “No, the old one. But it’s gone too.”

  While I sat wondering whether our conversation was making sense to either of us, she rose, mumbling something about the Little Senoritas’ room.

  When Gloria left, I seized the chance to talk to Kay Ferguson. Leaning toward her, I raised my voice to be heard above the music. “Tell me about Africa. Do you like living there?”

  Kay turned a dazzling smile in my direction. “Not much,” she said. “Ask John. He thinks it’s wonderful. The other Americans there have the cocktail hour to look forward to, but naturally we don’t drink. John said he never did. You knew that, of course. See, your yearbook even mentions it.” She opened the book and read from the class will: “‘I, John Ferguson, do hereby leave sober, which is more than I can say for the rest of the class.’”

  I laughed. “Well, sure. He wrote that part. His folks would have killed him if they’d known about our keggers—especially the one after graduation.” I chuckled at the memory of John’s hangover after drinking a brew of everything alcoholic we could get our hands on.

  “What?”

  Oh boy, I’d done it again. “Hey, it was high school,” I said. “I’m sure he hasn’t touched a drop since.”

  Kay didn’t sound reassured. “He claims he’s never had a drink in his life. Too holy. Then he acts like I’m on the chute to hell if I want a glass of wine.”

  Holy? The John I knew had been a champion beer guzzler and lady’s man. Girls lined up to let him break their hearts, and he charmed all of us. He was a sleaze but he was our sleaze, and we banded together to protect him (no, coach, John didn’t break curfew—didn’t copy my geometry test answers—didn’t steal a six-pack from Val-Mar). I tried to calm her. “John wasn’t much of a drinker,” I said and instantly felt disgusted with myself. The jerk still had me lying for him. Where was the cavalry? How long could Gloria stay in the Little Senoritas room? I slogged on. “He usually stuck to soft drinks. Yeah, I remember, orange soda was his favorite.” No need to mention he always laced it with vodka.

  Kay didn’t hear me. She was moving toward John—and possibly the bar, sainthood forgotten.

  Gloria came back and, to my relief, seemed to be her old, sunny self. Ignoring my “What took you so long?” she squeezed my shoulder and said, “We have to get together more often. You’ll come to our next reunion, won’t you? A few of us are talking about doing something big. Maybe a cruise. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Sheila sank into the chair Kay had vacated and saved me from replying. As her fingers selected the last cashew from the bowl of mixed nuts, she said, “Hey, guess who I saw at Piggly Wiggly in Mason. Ann Destin. Remember when she wore baggy sweatshirts until classes were out for the summer?”

  Gloria agreed. “Yeah, a girl couldn’t stay in school if she was pregnant—or married. And you thought she was cold,” she said, pointing at me and laughing.

  Sheila said even though schools now allowed pregnant seniors to graduate, she’d still hate to be the mother of a teenager, and did Tracy have a boyfriend? Gloria looked as if she might need to compose herself in the Little Senoritas room again. Conversation stumbled and sank. Before I could find a safer topic, Sheila moved away to talk to someone else.

  Several couples had their eyes on the TV monitors, which fortunately were closed captioned for the hearing-impaired. A basketball game was on. Duke? No, that was next week.

  Gloria seemed to read my mind. “How’s your love life? Are you seeing anyone?” she asked with an impish smile.

  “Don’t be silly.” The waitress arrived with our food, and we busied ourselves passing catsup and Sue’s onion rings around. “Well, there is this guy in Cherry Glen I’m going to go out with—not really a date, just watching a basketball game, more of a social obligation. He only invited me to be polite. It’s nothing.” I smoothed a strand of hair off my face with my wrist, trying not to get catsup in it.

  Gloria’s grin widened. “Good for you. But remember, you can’t waste time at our age. Ask him straight out what medications he’s on. We don’t have time for a long courtship.”

  My headache grew in proportion to the noise level, and the warm, flat beer made me sleepy. Alcohol and grease fought for control of my stomach. By the time the evening ended, I considered myself caught up for another forty years.

  Twenty-Three

  The next morning Sue and I shared a cinnamon roll at the new Cuppa Joe coffee shop downtown where Boehmler Drug used to be. Slate-topped tables, Tiffany lamps, good coffee. Very San Francisco. The place would never last.

  The only other customer was a man with tattoos and a headache. Sue caught me looking around and shook her head. “Quite frankly, my dear, it’s too early for our crowd to be up—except for the few who went to church and stuff. How about you? Going later or did you give it up for Lent?” She laughed at the old joke.

  I started to say I wasn’t much of a churchgoer but thought of Andy and her painting. Religion could be playing a bigger part in our lives. We’d been raised to be involved in the church but I’d never thought much about God. He was just there if I needed Him like an extra loaf of bread in the freezer. I half wanted to talk to Sue about the Andy-God situation but this wasn’t the time and Sue hadn’t expected an answer anyway.

  Sue was still doctoring her coffee with appropriate amounts of cream and sugar when she began the rehash of last night. We touched on every person there—who looked old, who’d put on too much weight. We agreed Ken had a winner in Marjorie but Ray hadn’t been as fortunate with Karla. We both thought Gloria had over-reacted to Sheila’s hint that Tracy might become a teenage mother but, on the other hand, Sheila shouldn’t have mentioned it. We talked about Gloria’s marital problems and wondered whether the daughter would go to modeling school. “Quite frankly, my dear, we’d better warn her about Paul if she lands in Chicago,” Sue said. “Did he ask you out too?”

  It took me a second to realize she was talking about our old football star, who was now prospering in Chicago. Last night he’d made the rounds of the women present and offered even me a few hours of his companionship. I nodded. “Guess Sheila turned him down. I might have considered going if his pick-up line hadn’t been he had an extra cemetery plot.” We both laughed.

  “Hey, did you see Jerry was the only one who didn’t buy a pitcher of beer? Maybe he lost his soccer bet. He didn’t seem to have a good time, did he? Didn’t want Judy to have one either. Don’t think he laughed once.”

  I agreed. “Looks like his sense of humor vanished with his hair. Did you notice they left early? Maybe they finally went to that ‘nice place’ for dinner. Wonder how far they had to drive to find it.”

  “Quite frankly, my dear, Beemer has two nice Italian restaurants.” Sue chuckled. “No Italian families though. The closest one lives fifty miles away.”

  Cold air wafted over us as a group of seven came through the front door. “Place is filling up,” I said. “Good thing we came early.”

  Sue smiled at me across her coffee cup, and we sat quietly for a minute until she thought of a new topic. “Hey, did you hear Patty Burns died? Just last month. She and her husband were at a party and she had a cerebral aneurysm.” I murmured sympathetic syllables, trying to remember Patty Burns. “Not a bad way to go though. Her last memory was dancing with her husband. You remember him, don’t you? Dennis Springer?”

  At last, a familiar name. I smiled a bit as I remembered. “Of course. I dated him one New Year’s Eve. We were at a party at Ellie’s—remember that big old house?—and I was so excited to be dating a senior when I was only a sophomore. I had a pencil in my hand and was waving my arms around, and when he leaned in for the obligatory midnight kiss, I hit myself in the nose wit
h the pencil and got a nosebleed.” Our laughter bounced off the walls and caused stares from everyone inside the building—and perhaps outside. “There was no second date.”

  Gradually the recap slowed and faded. After a brief moment of silence, Sue said, “It’s so great to see you again. Why didn’t you come home sooner?”

  Shrugging, I buttered my part of the roll, thinking her half looked bigger. “Oh, you know, family things. Time just got away from me.”

  Licking sugar from her bottom lip, Sue gave me a sly smile. “Uh-huh. Your husband didn’t want to come and he wouldn’t let you travel alone. Quite frankly, my dear, I know the type. When was the last time you were here?”

  “When my folks died—after the car accident.” I paused. Had my father deliberately caused the crash? The question felt like a cold stone in my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I jumped in. “Listen, Sue, you were still living here in those days. Did you know my mother had breast cancer?”

  “Well, yes, everyone did.” Her eyes widened. “Didn’t you?”

  “Me? Oh sure. Of course I did. Guess Dad was pretty upset.” I stirred my coffee, trying to act normal, but knew she’d seen my hand trembling. I saw the sympathy in her eyes.

  “Jane honey, is something wrong?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just . . . well, I was wondering . . . do you think maybe my dad drove off the road on purpose?”

  Sue looked at me thoughtfully for a minute and then placed her hand, warm from holding the coffee cup, over mine. “Oh, Jane, no. Don’t go there. Quite frankly, the gossips spread a few stories around when it happened, but no one believed them. Just a tragic accident, that’s all.”

  “Sure.” I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, that’s all it was.”

  “Besides, you know what? Your dad told mine he was going to ask you to come home for Christmas. He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t planning to be here and stuff, now would he?”

  I lifted my eyes to hers. “Really? He said that? He wanted me to come home?” A weight rolled off my heart. Dad hadn’t died hating me.

  I turned my face toward the plate glass window and hoped Sue wouldn’t see the tears of relief threatening to fall. Forty years of pain was hard to overcome, and I didn’t completely believe her—but I wanted to.

  As I regained my composure, I took in the changes in the two-block main street. Home is never quite the way you remembered it. The bakery was gone and so were all three clothing stores and Coast to Coast Hardware. One of the dime stores was now a dollar store; the other one had been renovated and sold antiques and frilly knickknacks. Beemer State Bank had been repainted but a parking lot had replaced Midwest Savings and Loan.

  Was everything I knew or loved gone? The ice cream shop where we went after school? The school itself? My parents? Dusty?

  “Did First Federal close?” I tried to make my voice sound natural.

  “No, it moved to where S&G Foods used to be. All the locally owned grocery stores are gone but we have Fareway.” I noticed Sue said we.

  “Look at all the gift shops. I can see four from here.”

  She nodded. “And guess what, there’s another around the corner and two more down by the old auditorium.” Before I could ask, she added, “We just call it that. There’s no new one.”

  We exchanged a brief smile. “Beemer’s not exactly a major tourist attraction,” I said. “Who buys all that stuff?”

  Sue raised her chin. “Lots of people come here. After all, Beemer’s the county seat. And there’s talk of building a skywalk between the hospital and the doctors’ offices. Quite frankly, my dear, that’ll be a big draw. People will come from all over to see it.”

  Was she kidding me? Apparently not. I changed the subject back to do-you-remember topics.

  When I’d done everything but lick the sugar off the plate, I checked my watch. “Guess it’s time to go. I’d like to be in Cherry Glen before dark and first I want to stop by the Laines’ house and see Dusty’s mother.”

  “You’d better go to the nursing home then, my dear. That’s where she lives now.”

  Another change. “Really? Okay.”

  “None of my business but why are you visiting Dusty’s mother?”

  I stuffed my arms into the sleeves of my coat. “I just feel I should We were neighbors for years and now she’s alone.” And I needed to know what she knew.

  “You’re nicer than I am. Didn’t she blame you for Dusty’s death?”

  “Oh, a little at first maybe, but she was just hurting. She understood the accident wasn’t my fault.”

  Sue sniffed. “I should think so.” She grabbed the check, saying she’d pay for my coffee if I promised not to wait another forty years before coming back. “You’re not here often, but when you’re here, you’re here.” We hugged goodbye, and she watched me drive away.

  I checked out of the motel, returning my room key to Captain, and drove to the Beemer Care Facility. It looked pretty much as it had when it was the Beemer Old Folks Home and our church youth group sang Christmas carols there. Nice enough—but the kind of place that made you want to take up smoking so you wouldn’t live long enough to be a resident.

  The heat smacked me in the face when I walked in. The lobby floor was gray linoleum, the walls clean and white, oozing with the smell of Lysol. Several attempts at making the facility more homelike were evident—a healthy philodendron, colorful wall hangings, numerous bouquets of flowers (obviously leftover funeral arrangements). A man wearing a blue-checked shirt, tan slacks, and brown corduroy bedroom slippers sat in a rocking chair by a television set cranking up the volume. Near the reception desk, a woman with a red face and a tight perm was adjusting her hearing aid.

  The middle-aged woman behind the large hotel-style desk looked up through thick glasses and wiggled a finger to indicate she’d be off the phone in a minute. I spent the wait leafing through a brochure that made the Beemer Care Facility look like a “golden years” resort. In one picture attractive, smiling seniors were playing cards on a flower-surrounded patio. Another image showed the cafeteria where two ambulatory couples clinked wine glasses while steaks sizzled on their dinner plates.

  A plump, pink-smocked volunteer pushing a wheelchair containing what looked like an elderly sparrow glanced at me. “Who ya here for, hon?”

  “Mrs. Laine.”

  “Room 219. Come on, I’ll show you.” The receptionist called out, ‘Thanks, Donna,” as she led me down the hallway to our left. We stepped around a woman in curlers and a colorless bathrobe who was doggedly following her walker, heading who knew where but looking serious about it. Peeking into the rooms we passed, I decided the living quarters pictured in the brochure must be somewhere else.

  “Good thing you came early,” Donna said. “Beat the crowd. Sunday’s our busy day—after church.”

  “Oh? Mrs. Laine gets a lot of company?”

  “Her? Oh no, no one ever comes to see her. Poor thing. No family at all. Her husband died a few years ago and her only child drowned the night he graduated from high school.” She shook her head in obvious sympathy. “Tragic, just tragic. Oh, but one person does come now and then. Andy Stendler. She’s a famous artist. Grew up in Beemer, don’t you know? She brought that painting last month.” Donna waved her arm back toward the reception area. With a start, I recognized Andy’s field of purple and red tulips. I knew she gave occasional art talks at the library but she hadn’t mentioned the care facility.

  Before I could say anything, the woman stopped to check her pager. “Again?” she said. “Damn.” She turned to me. “I’ve got to go but Mrs. Laine is down that hall and just around the corner.”

  “I’ll show her.” We both swiveled our heads toward a pert little lady dressed for the Queen’s coronation in a green rayon dress dotted with red poppies, a big-brimmed plum-colored taffeta hat, thick black mascara, scarlet lipstick,
and a pear-shaped rhinestone necklace and earrings. Florence in thirty years.

  “Great. Thanks, Audrey.”

  “C’mon, dearie. This way.” She powered her walker, the fancy kind with a padded seat, along the hallway. “Mrs. Laine? My, isn’t she the popular one these days?”

  “Lots of company?” I asked, expecting to hear again about Andy.

  A vigorous nod jangled the earrings. “Yes, a young man’s been here several times. Comes clear from Texas. Her nephew.”

  The room seemed to compress around me. Mrs. Laine didn’t have a nephew.

  Twenty-Four

  After a quick knock, Audrey pushed open the door of a semiprivate room decorated with a yellow construction paper flower and a DAISY LAINE nameplate. “Look who’s here, dearie. Someone to see you.” She motioned me into the room with a “have a good visit” and chugged away.

  Dusty’s mother was sitting in a chair close to the window with a blanket over her legs to ward off the chill. Her only view was endless Iowa white and the underside of ivy vines climbing the side of the building. The room was divided by a curtain on a track pulled in a half circle to hide her roommate’s empty bed. Mrs. Laine seemed smaller than I recalled—and her red-framed glasses bigger. The too-large wig on her head tipped to the left.

  My mouth went dry at the sight of her. She looked so old. Forcing a smile, I patted her arm. “Hi, Mrs. Laine. Remember me? Jane Stendler.” On the way there I’d stopped at Casey’s where, after staring at the magazine rack for some time, I’d bought a Family Circle and a book of crossword puzzles—big print but not too easy. I also picked up a giant-sized Hershey bar in case she still had a sweet tooth. Seeing her, my offerings seemed inappropriate. “I brought you something,” I said, setting the magazine on the bedside table and sliding the puzzles and candy into my purse.

  She peered up at me, pulling her sweater tighter around her neck. “Janie? Why, Janie Stendler, of course I remember you. You liked chocolate fudge cake and my Duane.” She chuckled. “You thought I didn’t notice you had your eye on him but I did. Your mother and I used to joke about it.” Her smile faded. “He’s gone, you know. Did you know that? Never came home from the dance. I thought he was sleeping late but he wasn’t home. Never came home.” Her voice trailed off. Then she brightened. “But I see him every day.”