Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  I liked the idea of borrowing something, because at some point, that meant I’d have to see her again to return it. I took the case and walked over to the workbench to open it. What a beauty. The peghead was carved pretty as Jack Harper would’ve done in a leafy design, and the fretboard had inlaid mother of pearl. While I was admiring it, and trying to think of something clever to say, she asked, “So the bus is still rolling?”

  “Yeah, we’ve gotten a lot of gigs since you left.”

  “Well, thanks for that vote of confidence, Rabbit.”

  I started to protest that wasn’t what I’d meant, but then I saw she was kidding me. And I just about lost it. What a sight for sore eyes she was, smiling at me. I asked, “How’s the table?” just to have something to take my mind offa that smile.

  “Oh, I love it. It’s beautiful.”

  “Notice anything about it?”

  “Well, I couldn’t have finished it better myself. Smooth as silk.”

  I guessed she hadn’t seen the carved initials. We hemmed and hawed a while longer, and then she left. I felt kinda empty, all over again, but at least I had her mandolin, something of hers to hold.

  I wasn’t up to much the rest of the day. Shiloh asked me what was wrong, but since he’d been off meditating while she was there, I didn’t have any explaining to do.

  Later that evening, I called Della up in D.C. She’d brought Millie home like she’d promised, but then she went back a week later because Alex had a doctor’s appointment.

  “Hey, Della. It’s me Abit.”

  “I thought it was you, Abit. I was just thinking about you—I’m coming home tomorrow.”

  “How’d Alex’s appointment go?”

  “Pretty good. The doctor told him things looked okay. For now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That we take it day by day.”

  “Well, I’d like to live this day over and over.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did you get a big order?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Fiona came by.” She was quiet for what felt like forever. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “I believe you, honey. I just hope she wasn’t toying with you.”

  “Oh, come on, Della. Don’t rain on my day.” I could hear her mumble something like sorry, and I went on to explain about the mandolin.

  “How’d she know you wanted to learn that instrument?” Dammit. I was caught. I hadn’t planned on telling her about my phone call, but then I had to explain about Nigel and all. “Nigel told you to call her?” she asked. I swear I could smell the smoke coming outta her ears.

  “Yeah,” was all I could manage to say.

  “I’m going to have a talk with him.”

  “Why’s that? Somethin’ nice came from it. You of all people should appreciate a reunion, what with how you and Alex got back together. And it made my heart ease a bit. Ease a lot.”

  “Well, that little Irish shite better not break your heart again, or else.”

  “Or else what, Della? Have you been drinkin’?”

  “No, I haven’t been drinking. And I don’t know what else, but she’s got me to contend with if she pulls any funny business again where you’re concerned.”

  I hated the idea that Della was mad at Fiona, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Man, Della could be a hellcat sometimes, especially when it came to looking out for me.

  27

  Della

  When I got settled back in Laurel Falls, I felt all sixes and sevens. Not home there, not home in D.C.

  A while ago, Mary Lou and I’d worked out a schedule that honored her need for regular hours (especially with four kids at home) and my need to keep the budget in line. So when I was in Laurel Falls, I worked two days a week plus one while Mary Lou was there. The store seemed more like hers than mine, but she’d earned that. She’d done a good job improving sales; I’d be crazy to upset that rhythm.

  And it no longer felt right spending so much time in D.C. I’d left after I got the distinct impression Alex was just making work for me.

  I didn’t know where I belonged anymore.

  The day didn’t brighten till late afternoon when I saw Abit and Millie heading up the steps to my apartment. But even he came through the door with a worried look. While I made us some fresh coffee, Abit asked me about the homeless in D.C. I’d sensed something had been troubling him since his last visit up there.

  “Yeah, I feel that way myself. Homeless, in a way,” I said.

  He stared at me for a few moments, growing agitated. “Are you crazy?” he finally said. “You’ve got two homes, for crying out loud. I can’t believe you just said that. You’ve got it great next to them guys lying on the cement, all their possessions in a goddam bag.”

  I could feel my face flush. I poured us more coffee, mostly to avoid looking at him. “You’re right, honey. I shouldn’t have said that. Just a weak moment.”

  “How do people get in such a bad situation?”

  “Well, what can I tell you? The world can be a hard place, and some folks don’t have anything or anyone to fall back on.”

  “Man, that sucks. I mean, is anyone doing anything about those guys?”

  “Not just guys. Women and children, too. Almost as many of them are living rough.”

  “Stop. That’s even more depressing.” Abit went on to tell me about one man in particular, holding his possessions while he slept. “He haunts me. I wanted to give him some money, but I was afraid he’d think I was attacking or robbing him. I wish I knew how to help.”

  “Most relief comes from churches and leaders like Mitch Snyder—who got so depressed by the situation he hanged himself.” The look on his face made me regret my lack of finesse. “Sorry I was so blunt, but it’s difficult to paint that situation any way but as bad as it is. People act all sad and wring their hands—until it comes time to build housing near their property or raise taxes to pay for shelters. And I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve heard sanctimonious people say ‘those people just need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.’”

  “If they even have boots.”

  “Good point, Mister. And most of these complainers are white and male and so-called Christians, which means they had three big things going for them as they tugged at their bootstraps.”

  We both looked around for something else to talk about, and our eyes fell on Millie and Jake tussling on the rug. We both smiled, and I suggested we talk about this issue another time. Not to gloss over it, but my state of mind at the moment wasn’t right for this discussion.

  “Okay, but it feels so big, and I can’t get that guy outta my mind.”

  “Then do something. Contribute a percentage of your profits one month or put a piece of furniture in an auction. I bet Alex could find some charitable auction for the homeless in D.C., and next time I go up, I’ll take it. You can’t fix that mess, but you can do something.”

  A week later, I found out I’d be going to D.C. sooner than I thought. Alex called and asked me if I wanted a job. His editor needed help with election coverage. The race between Bill Clinton and Bob Dole was heating up (even though Dole couldn’t seem to ratchet his rhetoric past tepid), and Ross Perot and Ralph Nader were trying to stir things up with third- and fourth-party challenges. Plus all the House and Senate races. Washington goes electric during election years, and I surprised myself with how eager I was to get back in the game. And get paid. Not that Alex hadn’t been generous with me, but that was more like wining and dining. This would be like the old days.

  28

  Abit

  It’d been more than a coupla months, and Fiona hadn’t called or come by again. Like a fool, I’d taken her loaning me that family mandolin as a gesture of lasting friendship—that we might get to know one another again. But I reckoned she’d just felt sorry for me.

  While I waited and hoped, I dove in and got mandolin lessons from Gina. She’d quit the band because she had to ge
t a fulltime job, but she made time for me. I already had the finger calluses I needed from the bass, so it was more a matter of scaling my technique down to size. Pretty quick-like, I learned to play some fine tunes, including “Bluegrass Breakdown” and “Jerusalem Ridge.”

  Trouble was, a day didn’t go by that I didn’t think about Fiona. I mean, how could I not when I cradled that mandolin in my arms? But I couldn’t call again. I’d stuck my neck out for her earlier, and I wouldn’t go beggin’.

  Thank heavens I could still count on Della to keep me straight. Like one day when I was feeling low and she told me how having too much self-confidence wasn’t good, either. I’d been hard on myself about not being, well, more. Hiding out in the barn both day and night, still not sure I was good enough at anything.

  “Okay, maybe it is time to get out more,” she said over one of our midday dinners of pulled pork and coleslaw. “But don’t discount the way you keep learning how to make your woodworking even finer—and how you reached out to Jack Harper and improved your own carving. Confident people don’t do that. Most of them just rest on their laurels. But you? You keep perfecting yourself. And in my opinion? You’re already ‘nearabouts’ perfect.” Then she ruffled my hair like she used to when I was a kid.

  Della had a point about how I kept working at getting better. Like my special orders, which were my favorites to work on. I’d made some for clients who actually clapped their hands when Shiloh and I delivered their order. One woman, after seeing what I’d done for her neighbor, told me I had card blonsh, or something like that. (I had to ask Della what that meant.) A lucky break, especially since I was all hepped up after the Smithsonian show. I couldn’t quit thinking about that stool I saw using barn wood set side by side with smooth, shiny wood stained red. I’d decided to make her table along those lines.

  A week later, the phone rang, but I let it go to the machine. My hands were covered in red stain.

  “I’ve been such an eegit, Rabbit.”

  Fiona. Red stain be damned, if she was callin’ me, red fingerprints on the phone would be a fine reminder of that day. I rushed over to my desk to grab the phone before she hung up. When I picked up, my mouth had gone dry and I couldn’t find my words.

  “Are ye there, Rabbit?” she asked after a long moment.

  I swallowed hard. “I heard you, and I agree with what you just said.” I wasn’t joking, neither. Hearing her voice without seeing her face helped me keep my wits about me. She had been an eegit. And just like that, I felt all kinds of hurt come up. I wasn’t ready to go easy into a new conversation, one that might hurt as bad as the ones before. But I had to admit a part of me wanted to slip back into her life faster than a band saw through pine.

  “I’m in the middle of somethin’, and I’m not quite ready to talk to you,” I said. I heard my voice quiver and cleared my throat to try to cover it.

  “Okay, when could we talk?”

  I didn’t answer. I just held that phone so tight, the stain was making my hand stick to it. Finally, she said, “I know you’re hurt, Rabbit, but there’s no point in digging all that up again. It was so good to see you.”

  “Yeah, it was, if you can remember it. That was two month ago.”

  “I had some figuring out to do. And some goodbyes to say,” Fiona said.

  “Well, so do I. Goodbye.” And just like that I hung up.

  Maybe the way I handled that was colored by spite, but I had some figuring out to do, too. And it stung that she thought she could just call up and tell me to forget about all that past stuff. I fumed round the shop the rest of the day, part of me wishing I could invite her over right there and then, and anothern knowing I needed to wait.

  I worked hard for the next week, late into the evening, sanding things to a fine sheen. I finished up the barn-wood table, and the customer loved it. Didn’t even blink at the cost. I also finished a new hoosier and a special-order black locust bedside table. That damn wood was the hardest I’d ever used.

  I tried to act like nothin’ had happened, but Shiloh could read people. One afternoon he asked me what was going on, and I tried to cook up some excuse. Before I could, though, he said, “Save your breath to cool your soup. I can figure it out for myself.” I musta given him a funny look because he added, “I read that one somewhere. It’s not original.”

  As if any of his jokes were.

  The next evening I finally picked up the phone. I’d been right about one thing—the phone was now permanently colored with red stain. If Fiona gave me the cold shoulder again, I’d need to buy a new one. I wouldn’t want a memento of that phone call.

  This time I waited ‘til I was sure she’d be home; I was sick of answering machines. And she picked up. Turned out, her story was right out of Mama’s soaps. The doctor she’d hooked up with was married, but he left his wife not long after he and Fiona took up with one another. Then he turned out to be a hitter. That was all she’d say, but that sent such a surge of rage through me, I scared myself. How could a big man like Dr. Gerald Navarro hit her? Well, really, hit anyone, but especially someone small boned like Fiona. She finally got the gumption to throw him out, and he went back to his wife. I was relieved when she told me they’d left town. I didn’t want to be tempted to take a two-by-four to him.

  We talked for what seemed like no time at all, but when I hung up, it was almost one o’clock in the morning. I was too keyed up to sleep, thinking about what Fiona’d said. I pulled Millie close and stroked her furry head, which helped calm me down. I hoped this weren’t just one of Fiona’s weak moments.

  29

  Della

  My new job got the adrenaline coursing through my veins again, and I began to appreciate what Abit had said about my having two homes. I loved being in D.C. for weeks at a time, and then I felt happy back in Laurel Falls. Good to have roots in both places.

  While I was at Alex’s, Abit called from time to time to fill me in about his business—and Fiona. She wasn’t in the clear with me yet, though it did sound like she was ready to make a life with Abit. She’d better be good to him was all I had to say. (Well, I always had more to say, but I was trying not to.)

  The work for Alex’s editor—phone calls, congressional interviews, emails—proved mostly mundane, but that was fine. I enjoyed being involved behind the scenes with little or no pressure. It sure beat worrying about writing and editing the stories, something I once loved. Fussing over commas and misplaced modifiers just didn’t matter to me anymore.

  You would have thought with a presidential election looming—it was already August—I’d’ve been more hepped up, as Abit would say. But even the election story was pretty much business as usual. Sure, someone was always trying to rake up more dirt on the Clintons, but the economy was booming, so in my humble opinion, Bob Dole didn’t stand a chance. Nor did Ross Perot. His newly formed Reform Party was still making noise, but I doubted he’d do as well as he did in 1992. And Ralph Nader? What damage could he do?

  After meeting with an aid to one of the more colorful senators facing reelection, I hurried to catch the Red Line Metro train to Dupont Circle. As I raced down the escalator, I found myself blocked by a large man taking up the entire width of the escalator. When I heard the whoosh of the incoming train I was sure was mine, I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of it coming through the tunnel and into the station. I bent down for a better view, which put me face-to-face with the folks riding the up escalator. As I did, my heart started thumping, even before the information of what I’d just seen made it to my brain.

  Somehow I caught that train, though I fidgeted all the way to my station, as though that helped the train move faster. I hailed a taxi instead of walking home, and after tossing too many bills in the front seat, I ran to the house.

  Alex was on the phone, but one look at my face, and he said, “Listen, Paul, I’ll have to get back to you. Yeah, soon.” He hung up. “What is it, babe?”

  “You won’t believe what just happened.”

  Some
how, I managed to wait a week before I called Abit at his woodshop. I explained that I needed him up in D.C., ASAP. “I’ve got a caper I need your help with.”

  “Della, you know I’d help you any way I could. But why me? I mean, what can I do that Alex or somebody else up there can’t do?”

  I kept forgetting I was no longer the center of his world. Okay, I knew that was as it should be, but it still stung. I’d even stopped before I called him to ask myself if I really needed his help, or was I just making up excuses to hang out with him again? (I’d been in D.C. a while, and I was missing our boy.) I came down on the side of needing his help. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. Trust me. You’ll want to work on this.”

  “How will I get there?”

  “You could drive the Merc. It knows the way here by itself after all the trips Alex made in it. Or I could pay for another ticket on the Southern Crescent. Why don’t I do that? You could even leave tonight—it departs Gastonia around midnight. You’d be here in the morning. Bring your camera and please go in the shop and tell Mary Lou I sent you.” I told him what I needed, and I kept rambling on, thinking he was following along.

  Until I sensed he wasn’t.

  After a few moments of silence, I said, “I suppose you have a date with your horny Irish rose.”

  “That’s thorny, Della. Thorny.”

  “Sorry, that’s what I meant to say.” Dead silence.

  After several more long moments, he asked, “Why do you hate her so?”

  “I don’t hate her. I just don’t like how she’s treated you—twice! I’m holding out until I’m sure she’s behaving herself.” He tried to interrupt me, but I went on. “Abit, can you come up here? I need a second.” Silence again. “Come on, Abit. Say something.”