“Too bad about your car?”
“What about my car?”
“JoAnn was driving it when she had the accident?”
“Oh my.” I thanked her for calling and hung up, in what JoAnn called the Stun Stage.
Florence hovered nearby. “Something wrong?”
I told her about JoAnn. I’d known her for thirty years, since we lived next door to each other in Sunnyvale. We kept each other sane while our kids were growing up. Her husband’s biggest sin was eating crackers in bed until one night, after twenty years of marriage, he went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back. Eventually, she heard from his lawyer. She was good to be around, especially since Marvin died. Claiming I was alone too much, she included me in her clubs: the bridge club, the church club, the coffee club. They kept me occupied.
A feeling of hopelessness washed over me. How would I manage without JoAnn? I shook my head in disgust. What kind of person worried about herself when her best friend was facing death? Poor JoAnn. If she hadn’t been taking my cat to the vet, she wouldn’t have had the accident. I fiddled with my empty coffee cup while thoughts bounced around inside my head. I had to get to California right away—but I couldn’t leave Andy. I took a deep breath. Okay, JoAnn’s children were there and I’d go when I could which, please God, would be soon because Andy’s wouldn’t have cancer.
“We’d better get back upstairs,” I said. “And let’s not tell Andy about this right now. She knows how close JoAnn and I are, and it would upset her.” I punched the Up button on the elevator and tried not to wonder whether the accident had occurred before or after Thelma’s shots.
Andy was sort of awake but put her arm over her eyes at the sight of Florence. Understandable. Florence in pants was awe-inspiring. In her royal purple suit with matching jewelry she looked like the Queen Mary sailing into port. She plopped into the chair, charm bracelet clanging.
I hovered by the bed and made sure the television was off. “Sorry about the Neighborhood Club,” I said to Florence. “I thought surgery would be over by Sunday and we’d be home but now, well, guess I’ll have to cancel my talk.” Florence protested but I said I couldn‘t possibly leave Andy alone in the hospital. No way. I had to be here.
“You don’t either,” Andy said. Florence seemed surprised to hear the patient speak. “Go. I sleep most of the time and surgery won’t be until at least Monday.” A young aide peeked in to ask whether Andy would like to take a shower. Yes.
I weighed my obligations. Andy really could manage without me and Florence looked like a plump terrier with the leash in her mouth. Better make that a Great Dane.
“Well . . .” I hesitated. The aide returned and dropped a stack of towels and a faded hospital gown on the bedside table. She offered water. Andy asked for ice chips. Cup or pitcher? Cup. She left on her mission.
“I guess I could leave for a while,” I said. Florence exhaled and sat back in her chair. “When does your friend go back?”
“Oh, she’s gone by now. The game was last night. Cherry Glen lost. I warned the coach not to let that girl of hers play. She can’t make a basket if anyone’s within five feet of her. But anyway, I told Betty I’d, you know, ride back with you.” The girl brought the ice chips and said Andy should let her know when she wanted her bedding changed. Florence twisted a ring with a large red stone on her finger. “We can, you know, wait until morning. I have a room at the Holiday Inn.”
“Me drive? Oh no, forget it.” My heart pounded. “I don’t drive,” I said through numb lips. “I mean, not that much, not in traffic, not in bad weather. I can’t drive all the way to Cherry Glen.”
“Sure you can.” Florence showed no fear. “The snow’s stopped and the roads are clear. Well, mostly clear.” The IV beeped in panic, probably indicating my level of terror. Andy pushed the call button and a distant voice assured her it would tell her nurse.
“Andy.” My voice was almost pleading. “You know I can’t merge.”
She waved away my alarm. “Go,” she said. “The trick is not to stop and look both directions at the top of the ramp. Keep moving. Watch for ice. Turn into a skid.”
Whatever that meant.
Thirty-One
I lay awake all night worrying, the weight of the world crushing my heart. What if Andy died? Or JoAnn--what if she died? I ought to tell Andy about JoAnn—and Leland. And I’d need to do something about my car when I got home. Could filing an insurance claim wait that long? The agent’s name must be somewhere in Marvin’s file cabinet. What if I needed a new car? Chris had bought one off the internet.
Chris. Was she avoiding me or was her job really that time-consuming? A pain shot through my forehead. What did a stroke feel like? First Marvin, then Andy and JoAnn. It was like Death was saying, “Their turn, now yours.” Not that it mattered. What was the point in staying alive if the people I cared most about were gone?
The Neighborhood Club speech demanded its share of worry. I was a fake, just a fat old lady who read stories to little kids. But the talk might not be a problem if I got killed trying to merge onto the interstate. Did the owner’s manual for Andy’s Explorer give instructions on Iowa driving?
As long as I was worrying, there was Elizabeth Stone. She’d been gone six weeks and the police had quit looking for her. She wasn’t dead but she wasn’t alive either. Had something awful happened to her or was she merely hiding somewhere? Should I grieve or be angry? She wasn’t really my problem but I hated not being able to help her parents—and grandfather. It would have been fun to see Tim again.
And what about Dusty? Worrying about him was part of my life. My eyes filled at the memory of the all too brief time we’d shared. He made whatever we did fun. In my dreams we were still laughing about everything and nothing. Would I ever stop missing him?
My heart ached—just like in country western songs. I’d never felt so lost and alone, not even when Marvin died. I absolutely could not cope with any of this, especially in the dark and cold. The winter seemed bleak and endless. Maybe I should go to Hawaii or Florida, someplace sunny where people didn’t need sweatshirts or get sick and die and no one expected you to merge and give speeches. I looked out the window, hoping for comfort, finding snow.
The phone rang. “Just making sure you were up.” Florence’s voice was too cheery for this time of day. “I know you’re anxious to get an early start.” I thanked her because my mother had stressed the importance of good manners and pulled the covers over my head. Then my conscience and I had a talk about obligations. Okay, I was up.
I took a shower, went downstairs for breakfast, and felt like I should have stayed in bed. Florence was checking out when I got to the desk. She waited while I wound an orange Angora scarf around my neck and pulled the matching cap over my ears. “Better bundle up,” I said, patting my pockets for mittens. “Car’s at the hospital.”
“It’s twenty degrees out.”
“That’s what I said.” Taking in Florence’s open London Fog raincoat, lining removed, and lack of hat or mittens, I shook my head in disgust. “I suppose you think it’s spring just because the sun is out. For heaven’s sake, you‘re going to catch your death of pneumonia.” Wait a minute, if Florence had to miss the Neighborhood Club meeting, would I still be expected to speak?
Looking down, I noticed her feet. “Florence, why are you wearing plastic bags over your shoes? Where are your boots?”
She shrugged. “Lost them. Checked the hotel’s Lost and Found but the only ones there were plastic and nylon. The guy said I could take them but no thanks. People would laugh at me. I have my pride you know.”
She flounced off, sliding her feet along to keep the bags in place, and was halfway to the door before she realized I was still fastening my coat. Coming back, she buttoned the top. “Good grief, you’re as bad as my sister,” she said with a laugh.
We stepped outside and the cold wind hi
t my face although Florence didn’t seem to be aware of it. “What about your sister?” I asked when I could catch my breath.
Florence chuckled. “Nothing, just that she lives in Tennessee and thinks she’s a Southern belle. Last time she was home, she was going to take a walk so she put on long underwear and a sweatshirt and zipped her parka all the way to the chin with the hood pulled tight around her face. She even wore fur-lined boots.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So the temperature was above freezing! When the TV weather forecaster predicted a ‘very comfortable’ thirty-seven degrees, she laughed out loud.”
“I can see why. I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“Yeah, Mary Ann. But she goes by Buffy.”
“Maybe she can come back in the summer.”
Florence pressed her lips together. “Not likely. She’s in a nursing home. Had a stroke. And she’s only four years older than me.”
“I’m sorry.” Florence looked so downcast I was glad I’d managed not to giggle at the idea of a headline saying Buffy Slays Vampire, Enters Nursing Home.
The plastic-bag boots disappeared ten steps from the hotel, and Florence’s suede sequined flats looked ready to dissolve by the time we reached the hospital. We looked in on Andy. Once again I asked if she was certain it was okay for me to go and once again she assured me she’d be fine and the roads would be fine and if I didn’t leave that minute she’d get out bed and drag me to the parking lot. Oh, and watch out for black ice.
Andy’s faithful Ford was waiting for us in the nearly full parking lot, looking like a red flower pushing up out of the snow. Maybe it wouldn’t start. It had been sitting outside for three days. My California Lexus blamed me for not living on the equator. As I brushed the snow from the Explorer’s windows, Florence fastened herself comfortably into the bucket seat. She said I should clear the roof too but I didn’t have anything to stand on.
I put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the car. “What’s black ice,” I asked, staring at the cockpit dials.
Florence looked surprised. “You mean you don’t have black ice in California? Well, it’s just invisible ice. Everyone knows that. Hey, it’s not a problem. Just drive on it like regular ice.” She paused briefly before suggesting we get started and asking if I knew how to start the car.
The Explorer snapped into action as though anxious to get home to its own garage. I replaced car not starting with black ice on my growing list of worries and eased onto streets slushy with salt. How long had it been since I’d driven on snow-packed roads? Forty years? Cars whizzed past.
“I knew that would happen,” Florence said as a gray Mazda Miata cut in front of us. “No wonder so many people get killed out here.” She fished under her legs. “Never ride with your purse open,” she said, zipping hers shut. “If the contents spill in the crash, the police won’t be able to identify your body.”
Good to know.
We counted vehicles in the ditch and lost track somewhere around one hundred eighty-two. It was still breezy but the road was open, one lane each direction. The wind had whipped drifts into stiff peaks and folded them over in smooth scallops. I gripped the steering wheel, shoulder blades scrunched, neck tight. My knuckles turned white and my shoulder muscles ached.
The seat next to me gurgled. Oh please, Florence couldn’t be choking! I risked a quick glance. She was asleep and snoring, eyes closed, mouth open. Apparently facing near-certain doom had worn her out.
Passing cars covered my windshield with sludge. Bit by bit I increased my speed to thirty miles an hour and started humming “King of the Road.” I nudged Florence. “Where do we turn?” I asked.
Her eyes popped open. “What? Oh, take the Highway 30 exit. See that sign?”
“Exit? But when do we get on the interstate?”
“You’re on it. Cherry Glen’s another thirty miles.” She settled back and closed her eyes again. She wouldn’t have understood my excitement anyway. I’d done it. I’d merged!
The rest of the trip was almost anticlimactic. Traffic was light, which I interpreted to mean no one else was dumb enough to be out. At one point, I sped up to thirty-five miles an hour but I knew my fingerprints were permanently embedded on the steering wheel.
After two hours I spotted the Cherry Glen water tower and woke Florence for directions to her place. She lived on the south edge of town in a pale yellow ranch-style house with green shingles and a satellite dish on the roof. Snow nearly hid the wrought iron pink flamingos in the yard. The road was plowed but no one had shoveled her driveway.
I let her out in the street and promised to see her at the library. “You know how to get there, don’t you?” she asked. “It’s just past the old Target building by the new Legion Hall.” I assured her I’d find it and backtracked to Andy’s. Someone, probably Bob, had cleared the lane.
I walked into the house and noticed . . . quiet. No furry greeter meowed and rubbed against my ankles. Nothing but silence. I kicked off my boots and walked around turning on lights. I clicked on the television set too. Was this how it was for Andy every day? I’d get a cat or a Tasmanian devil or something if I had to live out here by myself.
Well, it was peaceful and Andy liked that. She’d always walked alone, never allowed anyone to get close to her—until Roger. He showed up when she was in college. I wondered how her life would have changed if he’d lived. Would she have painted? Traveled to Australia? Owned a white house with two Priuses in the driveway?
I missed Thelma. She’d be on my lap purring by now, assuming she’d forgive me for leaving her. The grandfather clock’s chime reminded me I had enough time to change into my black suit complete with uncomfortable shoes. I might be a fat fake but I was going to look good.
Dressed and ready to go, I still had enough time to call Tim and explain why I couldn’t see him. By now the whole town knew the reason Andy and I had gone to Des Moines.
Before I could change my mind, I punched the Stones’ number into the phone. Win answered and said he was the only one home. I covered my disappointment by asking him kind-old-lady questions, which he was polite enough to answer. He didn’t go on to the All State Speech Contest but had the lead in the high school play. “That’s great,” I said. “Congratulations. When is it?” I pictured myself sitting with his family, grandfather included, in the town auditorium.
“Last weekend in April. Rehearsals have started but I couldn’t go today. Someone has to stay home in case we hear from Elizabeth, and Dad didn’t think my play was as important as the auction they went to.”
“How about your grandfather?” I asked, just being friendly, hoping I sounded casual.
“He’s at Charlotte Hudson’s. She’s invited him over for dinner a bunch of times and he told us he might as well go; he had to eat somewhere and her TV was as good as any. She’s a big Duke fan and that’s Grandpa’s favorite team.”
A quick glance at the set I’d turned on for background noise confirmed that, sure enough, someone was playing basketball. Duke? Hard to tell.
Small pause and then Win said, “Dad doesn’t seem very happy about my part. I could get kicked out of the play for missing practice but he wouldn’t care.”
“Oh, Win, your father cares but he’s got a lot on his mind right now. He’s worried about your sister, that’s all.”
“Yeah. Everything’s always about her.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s delighted you’re in the play. What one are you doing?” I asked, afraid he’d say Peter Pan but hoping for Knute Rockne, All American.
“The Man Who Came to Dinner. I play Sidney Whiteside.”
“Really? Guess what, we did that same play when I was a junior. I was Nurse Preen. There was a movie version, early forties I think. Monty Woolley had your part. You’ll have to grow a long white beard.”
He humored me by laughing and said he’d tell his mother I ca
lled.
Thirty-Two
The Neighborhood Club meeting was scheduled for one o’clock, and I arrived at the library early. Bertha pointed me to the basement conference room and said the coffee should be almost ready to drink. Downstairs, fifty metal folding chairs faced a small table, classroom style. The carpet was blue with a faded print, and fluorescent lights flickered in the ceiling. Shelves of worn-out books lined the walls, and a large table containing the promised coffee urn sat in the back of the room. In addition to coffee, I could smell dust and library paste, the thick white stuff that Kenny Freislebein used to eat when the teacher wasn’t looking.
I hung my coat on the rack and traded my boots for black pumps. How had I worn these things on a regular basis? My feet preferred the boots, even with snow in them. I limped to the nearest chair.
The ladies arrived in clumps, heads together for weather updates with a smattering of neighbor news. There were probably twenty of them, each with a salad. Apparently they carried covered dishes of food everywhere.
Several people asked about Andy and actually seemed to care how she was, which I found touching considering her efforts to remain apart. One woman cut through the small talk. “Is it true you want us 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 the money for every little whim. Who’s gonna pay for all that stuff?” She must have had her hair done recently because she was echoing Vera nearly word for word. I replayed my explanation about the merchants sponsoring story hour as a sales promotion to give people a reason to shop locally.
“Huh,” she said, “we had a farmers market once so get people downtown. Had it every Friday all summer.”
“Great. Did people shop here then.”
She looked at me in disgust. “Of course not. Stores are closed on Friday.”
Just then Florence whipped in and seemed so happy to see me you’d have thought we hadn’t parted company only two hours earlier. She ran around presenting me to people as “that artist’s sister, Jane Emerling, noted child authority from California.” My smile began to hurt.
Goodbye, Miss February Page 17