by Nancy Garden
“Or what if your mother has another stroke?” Marie put in, repeating Louise Brice’s frequent warning. “It’s foolish, Nora, and downright dangerous for you not to have one.”
“I know,” Nora told them, “but as I’ve said before, he won’t have it.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to have it, isn’t he? I’ll talk to him. You let me handle it.” Angrily, Marie selected a piece of cinnamon toast.
“He needn’t even know.” Charles took a piece himself. “Good toast.”
“Thanks to your wife.” Nora smiled at Marie. “Father would know. He’d know people were inside the house, installing it, and he’d hear it ringing.”
“All right,” said Marie, “but what can he do about it, really? I mean, the man is helpless!”
“Ah, but he’s not as helpless as he makes out he is,” said Charles. “Look at today. I agree with Nora that there wasn’t a single thing wrong with him. In fact, Nora, I’m not even sure he fell off his bed. Did you hear a thump?”
“No. As a matter of fact I didn’t.”
“There you are.” Charles drained the remaining tea in his cup. “I think he faked the whole thing to get your attention. Got off the bed and carefully lowered himself to the floor. I’d like to get that X-ray machine in just to prove to him that he’s not hurt and to perhaps discourage him from trying such antics again.”
“Charles, really!” exclaimed Marie. “We can’t be positive he was faking. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. If something really does happen, Nora, you might not be able to leave to get help. And what about thunderstorms, winter, all sorts of things? You can’t run out in a blizzard to get the doctor if your mother has a stroke in the middle of one. And suppose there’s a fire? With that old stove…”
“But even if he’d agree,” said Nora, “he’d never stand for the expense. You know how he is about money. Just the other day he complained about the town taxes again.”
“Humph,” Marie grunted. “I shouldn’t think he’d have to pay much, without town water or sewage or anything.”
“That’s the plan, isn’t it?” Charles said. “Doing without those things in order to keep the taxes down? After all, there’s all that land. Fifty or so acres, isn’t it? But that’s beside the point,” he went on. “The parish fund can easily manage a telephone.”
Nora shook her head. “He’d call it charity.”
Marie patted Nora’s hand, momentarily enveloping it. “He’ll just have to accept it, then.”
“No,” Nora said firmly. “If there’s to be a phone, I’ll pay for it out of my proofreading money.”
“And,” Marie said just as firmly, “the parish fund will reimburse you, pay part of it, something. You need that money for other things, Nora, and you know it.”
“No, really,” Nora protested, embarrassed. “I insist.”
“And so do I. We can work out the details some other time. Meanwhile, I’ll call the phone company. So”—Marie got up and fanned her legs once or twice surreptitiously with her skirt—“that’s settled then, isn’t it? You really do need to be sensible about this, Nora. For your parents’ sake as well as your own. Think of them, if not of yourself.”
Nora felt too tired to resist any more. “All right,” she said dully.
But she knew it would be she, not the Hastingses, who would bear the brunt of her father’s wrath.
Chapter Ten
The traffic was murderous leaving New York, but Liz had expected that. It thinned out on the Connecticut Turnpike—probably because there’s more room for it, she mused. Still, given that it was the first nice Friday that June, she suspected that many of the cars whizzing past her, zipping in and out of lanes, were vacation- or at least free-weekend-bound.
And so am I. She settled back, elbow out of the window of her newly purchased secondhand Toyota, head momentarily against the anti-whiplash headrest. So, if you ignore the botany texts and sketch pads, am I.
***
Outside Hartford the traffic picked up again, and Liz, daydreaming about the last day of school when her seniors had actually clapped for her at the end of class, had a near miss when a truck, passing, cut her off as it zoomed in front of her. “Jerk!” she shouted, banging her foot down on the brake and stifling the urge to give him the horn. But then a plaid-shirted arm shot out of the truck’s cab, waving, and she grinned good-naturedly as she muttered, “But you’re still a jerk, buddy boy.”
She stopped for lunch in a town where she knew there was a deli near the road that served good hot pastrami, reasoning this would be her last chance for that till fall, and treated herself to a box of assorted rugelach; they’d last a week if she didn’t gorge herself and if she kept them in the fridge.
The fridge, she thought; did I leave it open? Shut it off or leave it running? Oh, Lord! The prospect of cleaning mold out of it if she’d shut it off and closed it made her stomach lurch.
But no, she said to herself. No. I will not spoil this day by worrying.
About anything. I will not think of Megan, or worry about being lonely or being in a town so small it almost doesn’t exist.
I will not worry about anything.
***
When she got to Clarkston’s tiny main street, she decided to stop at the post office to ask about renting a box for the summer. She’d told her post office in New York to forward her mail to general delivery but the idea of a post office box filled her with nostalgia. Her family had had one every summer, kept it all year, in fact, till the year Liz’s mother had died.
She wondered if Megan would write.
The day before she’d left New York, Megan had called her, rather stiffly asking about a CD she thought she’d left behind. But she hadn’t left anything behind; Liz decided it was probably an excuse.
“Are you okay?” Liz had asked. “How are you and Janey?”
“You want me to be okay, don’t you?” Megan said bitterly. “So you won’t have to feel guilty.”
“I’ll feel guilty no matter how you are, Meggie,” Liz told her as gently as she could. “And sad. But I’ll also know it was the right thing to do. You deserve better than me, better love than I can give.”
“You could if you let yourself.”
“Maybe, but that’s the point, isn’t it? If I let myself.”
Would I know how, Liz wondered briefly now, pulling the car into the driveway that served as the post office’s parking lot.
The Clarkston post office was a tiny brown-shingled cabin, not even a regulation rural post office building. It stood off to one side of the postmistress’s matching brown-shingled house. A window box running under the cabin’s street-facing window displayed red geraniums; a basket of scarlet and purple fuschia swung brilliantly by the front door.
Inside, old-fashioned brass-and-glass post office boxes covered the wall next to the counter, and Liz was pleased that she recognized the small white-haired woman who was selling stamps to a larger, stouter white-haired woman.
“You’ll be wanting the farm’s mail, too, I expect, along with this,” said the postmistress (Helen Whipple, Liz remembered), handing the stout woman a large flat package. The stout woman looked familiar; so did the blue and white hand-embroidered cotton skirt she was wearing, but Liz couldn’t place her. “To Mr. and Mrs. Henry Brice,” was scrawled on the package, Liz saw, and then Helen, looking up but not really at Liz, said, “Be right with you, dear,” and handed Mrs. Brice—for it must be she, Liz decided—another package and a few envelopes. Liz didn’t think her family knew the Brices—not surprising, since summer people didn’t mix much with the “natives,” as her father had called them privately—but Liz thought she must have seen Mrs. Brice around town or maybe at church, the few times her family had gone.
“Here’s another lesson from that poetry school,” Mrs. Whipple was saying to Mrs. Brice. “Bless her heart, poor girl. As if she didn’t have enough to do already.”
“Yes, but, Helen, it keeps her mind occupied. And the proof
reading gives her a little independent income. Takes her mind off crochety old Ralph, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“How’s Ralph doing, anyway?”
“Grouchier than ever,” Mrs. Brice replied. “Especially"—she glanced toward Liz and lowered her voice—"since Corinne’s been poorlier. Well, see you tomorrow, Helen.” At that point Liz remembered the unwritten rule of the Clarkston post office: any serious conversation had to stop whenever a stranger arrived.
“Neither rain nor snow,” quipped Helen cheerfully as Mrs. Brice left. At last looking properly at Liz she said, “Now, dear, what—good heavens, Liz Hardy! My goodness gracious, child, it’s been ages. Welcome back! How are you?”
***
Twenty minutes later, Liz, having been hugged, queried, and warmly welcomed by Helen Whipple, fastened the tarnished brass key to Post Office Box 108 to her key chain, and walked to Clarkston’s small convenience store, where she bought milk, eggs, butter, a package of lunch ham, coffee, and bread. She decided to do a proper shopping the next day at the supermarket in the next town; this would do for tonight’s supper, with perhaps a salad if she felt like going up to the Davises’ farmstand later.
***
But she didn’t. She’d remembered to open the fridge door, thank goodness, so there wasn’t any mold. By the time she’d unpacked some of her clothes and put them in the lavender bureau in her parents’ upstairs room, and had arranged her botany books and sketch pad and writing supplies on her father’s desk in the other upstairs room, she was too tired to do much more than sit on the dock with a glass of wine as the sun set and the air cooled. She sat there till long after the afterglow left the sky, her mind pleasantly blank, or nearly.
Yes, she thought, finally unfolding herself to go inside and cook her solitary supper. Yes, I think I really can do this after all.
***
The next morning Liz was up soon after the sun and she ran, towel-clad, down to the lake and plunged naked into the still-cool water, startling a small school of fish that scattered as she dove but returned a few minutes later to nibble her toes, making her laugh. She floated lazily on her back till she heard a distant outboard motor; then, cursing it, she swam back to shore, wrapped the towel around herself and ran back to the cabin, suddenly ravenous.
The phone rang.
Cursing again, Liz wrenched the receiver off its hook and barked, “Yes?”
“Liz?”
“Yes?” she said, a little less angrily; it was a slightly familiar elderly female voice.
“Clara Davis, dear. I hope I didn’t wake you. Harry thought he saw you in a car yesterday leaving the post office. So you’re here now at last! How wonderful!”
Resignedly, Liz edged a chair to the phone and sat. Were the Davises going to be overly attentive?
“Yes, I just arrived yesterday, Mrs. Davis. It’s grand to be here.”
“It’s grand to have you here, dear, too. Now, you mustn’t be a stranger. I’m sure you’ll want company now and then, there in the cabin all by yourself. We’d love you to come for supper tonight; in fact we won’t take no for an answer. I wanted to make sure to catch you before you made any plans. Six o’clock?”
Damn! Liz thought. But she knew it would be the height of rudeness to refuse. “Sure, Mrs. Davis,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Sure, that’d be wonderful. Thank you! I’ll be settling down to do some work in a day or so,” she added, “but it’d be nice to socialize a little before that.”
She could almost hear Mrs. Davis’s smile.
***
At six sharp, Liz, wearing a clean, well-pressed light blue shirt and smooth-fitting tan slacks, pulled into the farmstand’s parking lot, where she saw to her dismay that a slick-looking black Mazda was parked next to Harry Davis’s pick-up truck. Sure enough, as soon as she stepped into the farmhouse’s front vestibule, where Harry’s barn boots sat muddily next to his wife’s herb basket, Clara Davis, after hugging Liz, threw open the inside door and, beaming proudly, stepped aside to reveal a tall, blond, confident-looking man of about forty, dressed as Liz was in a blue shirt and tan chinos. “This is Roy Stark,” Clara announced, “a near neighbor, new in town this spring. Roy’s renting the old Kincaid place, and he’s been teaching part-time at the high school, filling in for someone who left suddenly, so you two have a lot in common. Roy, here’s Liz Hardy, who I told you about.”
Roy stuck out a very clean, almost hairless hand. “Hi, Liz,” he said in a pleasantly deep voice. “I hope you don’t mind my being here, but it’s all Mrs. D’s fault.”
“No, no,” Liz sputtered politely, minding a great deal. “Not at all.”
His grip was firm, his eyes friendly.
“Come in, come in!” Clara led them past a coat rack, bare except for an old-looking maroon cardigan; Liz remembered being fascinated with the rack as a child. On Halloween, the Davises made a ghost out of it, with blinking Christmas-light eyes. It had terrified Jeff once when they’d spent Halloween weekend at the cabin and Dad had taken them trick-or-treating.
Clara ushered them into the living room and sat them down next to each other on the slightly sagging green sofa facing the fireplace. An old border collie struggled to its feet from a rug near the hearth and limped over to Liz, nuzzling her hand.
Liz, giving a little cry of recognition, slid to her knees and held out her hand, which the dog solemnly licked. “This isn’t Brinna?” she asked, looking up at Harry, who had just come shuffling in, his cane in one hand and a plate of cheese and crackers shakily in the other.
“Indeed it is,” he said, his voice thinner than Liz remembered. “And she still knows you, looks like.”
Liz nodded, hugging the dog, who licked her face. “She must be, let’s see, how old now?”
“Fifteen,” said Clara. “Nearly sixteen. She doesn’t hear much any more, or see either, but she still helps pen the sheep when the other dogs bring them in. Mostly she stays by the fire. Do you remember…”
“…the time she woke you up when your barn got struck by lightning? I sure do!”
By then Roy had squatted beside Liz and was making great show of patting the dog, but Brinna leaned against Liz, ignoring him. When they sat on the sofa again, she curled up at Liz’s feet.
“That’s what you should have, Lizzie,” said Harry, passing the cheese while his wife followed with glasses and sherry on a rather battered tray. “A dog for company, there in that cabin all by yourself.”
“I recommend it,” Roy said, raising his glass. “Cheers everyone.”
“Cheers,” the Davises murmured.
“So you have a dog?” Liz asked Roy in the awkward silence that followed.
“Yes, a silly young golden retriever. He’s just a pup; you’ll have to come and meet him sometime, if you like dogs.”
“I do like dogs,” Liz said, and quickly added, “but I’m going to be kind of hermit-like this summer, doing some work.”
“Oh?” Roy asked. “A teacher working in the summer?” He shook his head. “All work and no play…What’ll you be doing?”
“Some botanical studies.” Liz tried her best to sound serious and boring. “I teach biology and physiology, but I’m kind of weak in botany and need to do some real exploring. I’m looking forward to gathering specimens in the woods around the cabin, to study them.”
“Well, if you wouldn’t mind company, I’d love to come along. I don’t know a thing about botany, but I used to do some surveying so I’m good at carrying equipment.” Roy smiled disarmingly and leaned forward. “And a little bird, a realtor I know, actually, tells me you’ve got a neat summer cabin you’re thinking of selling, on a great piece of wooded land.”
“I’m not so sure any more that I’m selling it,” Liz said, trying not to let her annoyance show, and making a mental note to call Georgia Foley. “At least not for a while.”
“And Harry and I are so happy about that!” exclaimed Clara. “As to botany”—she nodded toward Roy—“Roy’s not as ignora
nt as he makes out, at least not in a practical sense. He’s been working the Kincaids’ big garden. In fact, it’s his peas we’ll be eating tonight. Now,” she added, getting up, “supper ought to be just about ready; I’ll go see.”
“I’ll help,” Liz said quickly, jumping to her feet.
But Roy followed.
Chapter Eleven
“When you were very little,” Corinne said lucidly with a wistful smile during her bath on the morning the telephone people were coming, “you called me Mummy, remember? Not Mama.”
“Yes.” Nora carefully swabbed the remaining soap off Corinne’s arms. “I remember. Would you like me to call you Mummy now?”
Corinne’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “I think I should call you Mummy, don’t you?” she said. “I’m the little girl now and you’re the mummy.”
“Do you mind that very much?” Nora asked. But Corinne stiffened and her eyes stared unseeing into Nora’s.
“Mama?” Nora whispered, terror seizing her. “Mama?” She shook Corinne’s arm, then her shoulders, but there was no response.
Ignoring the pain that gripped her heart, Nora put her fingers on Corinne’s neck, over her carotid artery. Her pulse was faint, but present; a little uneven, but not erratic. Her skin was cool and clammy, her breathing shallow but regular.
Carefully putting the basin of water aside, Nora reached down to the foot of the bed, pulled up Corinne’s terrycloth robe, and wrapped it as closely as she could around Corinne’s somewhat rigid body.
“Mama?” she said again. “Mummy? What’s wrong?”
Intelligence returned to Corinne’s eyes. “Why, nothing, dearie,” she said cheerfully. “Are we ready for church now?”
Nora closed her eyes for a moment in relief. “No,” she said, “no, it’s Saturday, not Sunday. And we’ve just finished your bath. Now it’s time for breakfast. I’ll wheel you into the kitchen. Here, lift up now: one, two, three. Good, that’s it. There we are.” As Nora put the robe properly on Corinne and settled her in her wheelchair, thoughts chased themselves through her mind: another stroke, a quick drop in blood pressure? But why? Good thing the phone’s coming today, even though Saturday installations cost more; good thing they didn’t have any weekday appointments for a while; first call will be to Dr. Cantor; how many more of these incidents can she survive; God, it would be awful to be old; when I’m old, who’ll take care of me; poor Mama, poor Mummy!