Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners

by Gretchen Anthony

  Barb nodded. “True. And then strangle her?”

  “Funny.” She rolled her eyes. “Keep this up and I may just find myself a job in Ohio. Make you live in your family’s shadow for a change.”

  Barb put up her hands in mock surrender.

  Cerise continued, “I think our best bet may be to get my mother involved in other baby stuff. Keep her engaged, productively.”

  “Like what other baby stuff?”

  “I dunno. Baby showers. Baby gear. Baby’s room.”

  Barb paused and put her sandwich down. “You’re not even going to call her out for making it sound like you got rid of a baby you didn’t want? Tell me you’re not going to let her get away with that.”

  “I’m not letting her get away with something, I’m trying to get her away from something. I mean, we’ve been denying her answers for weeks now and look where that’s gotten us. I’d rather distract her with a new topic than become the next pro-choice poster child of Hennepin County.”

  Barb smiled. “Sorry, babe. You’re too late for that one.”

  Cerise groaned. “Trust me, the fight’s just not worth it. What could I even say?”

  “That she just made you the pro-choice poster child of Hennepin County.”

  “Yeah, right. Play that out. I say, ‘Hey, Mom. Don’t love the fact that you just made several hundred people think I had an abortion.’ Then she says, ‘I did no such thing.’ Then I say, ‘Oh, yeah? Well, it sure seems to me like you did.’ To which she says, ‘If you mean to imply that I don’t have the right to say whatever I wish to my own friends in my own words on correspondence for which I paid, then you are not the grateful and rational human being I raised you to be.’” Cerise dropped the last of her crust to her plate with demonstrative flourish.

  Barb shook her head. “Your mother’s a piece of work.”

  “That is a known truth.”

  Barb leaned back in her chair and drummed her fingers lightly against the side of her glass. “So, say we do involve her in more of the baby stuff. Aren’t we just causing a new headache for ourselves?” She stood and walked to the pantry, returning with a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve never been eager to get married.” She popped a chip in her mouth and crunched it gone. “God, can you imagine planning a wedding? Your mother would invite five hundred people and impose a dress code on each and every one of them.”

  “That’s not true—” Cerise began to protest out of duty, though Barb was right. Her mother had asked each of the hundred guests invited to her high school graduation party to bring a gift representing their favorite element on the periodic table. The request had resulted in Cerise heading off to college with four bottles of zinc tablets, a cast-iron skillet, several rolls of antacids “with added calcium” and, thanks to one of her father’s colleagues, a prep kit for a barium enema.

  Barb shrugged and offered her the bag of chips without apology.

  Cerise sighed. “If I had a better idea, I’d offer it.”

  “What about your dad? Can’t you enlist his help in getting her to rein in the crazy?”

  Cerise paused. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Her dad was rarely even in the equation when dealing with her mother. “Well...” She fiddled with a piece of potato chip that had fallen to the table with one of Barb’s more energetic bites. “To be honest, I don’t know how much help he’d be. I think his strategy all these years was to just say yes. Easier than fighting her.”

  “Worth a try, though. No?”

  Cerise guessed it was.

  Feds greeted with Second “Watchers” Statue

  by Harvey Arpell,

  staff reporter, Minneapolis/St. Paul Standard

  January 31, 2018

  Minneapolis, MN—A second statue appeared overnight on the lawn facing the Federal Reserve Building in Minneapolis, this time depicting a woman, raising her fist to the sky and cradling a child in her lap. Last month, a statue depicting a child beggar was discovered in the same location. City personnel removed both pieces within hours of their discovery.

  “The Watchers,” a previously unknown activist group, again claimed responsibility for the installation, posting several pictures of the chicken wire statue on Instagram. Within hours, the hashtag #whatthewatcherssee began trending on Twitter, driven mainly by its use in online social activism.

  Minneapolis Police declined to comment on the group or their recent activity.

  17

  Violet

  “READ THAT AGAIN, ED.” Violet pulled the washcloth from her eyes and tossed it aside. The cloth had been warm and calming when Ed sat down to read the paper to her—a lovely new tradition of theirs—but now it was giving her the chills.

  “Which part, dear? About The Watchers’ statue downtown?”

  She groped at the cashmere throw around her shoulders. “No, the weather.” She wasn’t interested in frivolous political shenanigans, nor could she even begin to imagine the chicken wire monstrosity. “Read the weather again. I want to know when this cold snap is going to end. I’m worried about my hydrangea bushes.”

  “Ah.” Ed flipped the pages. “Warming up tomorrow, from the looks of it. Back into the teens by Thursday.”

  “Good. I don’t want to spend the spring replanting.” They would be welcoming a baby in a few months and she intended to be ready. She’d already missed so very much. “What time is Cerise coming?”

  “Just after lunch.” He folded the newspaper into a tidy square. “Which reminds me—would you prefer turkey or ham on your sandwich? It’s nearly noon.”

  “Both,” answered Violet. “I’m feeling frisky today.”

  “That’s a good sign, then.” He stood, but showed no indication of moving toward the kitchen.

  Violet eyed him. “Yes?”

  “Well...” He began to flick the newspaper against his leg with a nervous twitch.

  “For goodness’ sake, Edward. Spit it out. I’m not a delicate flower.”

  “Of course not, Violet. It’s just that, well, I suppose I ought to prepare you that there seems to have been some kerfuffle over the thank-you notes.” He slapped the newspaper with such aggravation it lost its rigidity and slumped flaccidly at his side.

  “A kerfuffle?”

  “Of sorts, yes. That’s what I gather, anyway.”

  “From whom?”

  “Whom?”

  “Gathered from whom, dear? From whom do you gather there was a kerfuffle?” She groped for the washcloth she’d thrown aside a moment before.

  “From Cerise. When she called. Said she and Barb hadn’t appreciated being mentioned.”

  “But I didn’t mention them.”

  “Well, Violet. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say you were referring to Cerise’s pregnancy.”

  “Of course I was.”

  “Then we agree.”

  “We most certainly do not.” Her fingers located the washcloth and she laid it across her forehead. The moisture cooled her rapidly rising temper. “I was simply making a clear statement of support for our daughter and our future grandchild. In case any of our guests assumed otherwise.” She pressed the cloth to her temples. “You, on the other hand, make it sound as if I’d published the contents of her medical records.”

  “Now, I didn’t say anything like that and you know it.”

  “And what would you have had me do, Edward? If I asked you once, I asked you a hundred times to be more forthcoming in your phone conversations. But never once did I hear you advocate for the still-outstanding reputation of your family.”

  “That is quite possibly the most ridiculously unfair thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He was raising his voice now. Her brain was about to overheat and Edward was screaming. What had become of their life together?

  “Meg Thompson asked
Eldris if they’d used a donor.”

  Ed shook his head. “Who on earth is Meg Thompson?”

  “A donor, Ed. People are speculating about how our dear, sweet daughter got pregnant! Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “Not as much as the fact that Meg Thompson needs a lesson in human biology. How else would two women have acquired the necessary spermatozoa?”

  For heaven’s sake.

  “Forgive me if I’ve grown old and out of touch, Edward, but I thought the method you and I used still worked just as well as it used to.” She waited to let the point sink in. “From the sounds of it, our daughter’s sex life is the topic du jour at the Faithful Redeemer Sunday Coffee Hour.”

  Ed sighed and walked to the couch, sitting down in such a way as to not jostle her. “People will talk, Violet. It’s just the nature of things.” He put a hand on hers, but she pulled away. She was still overheating and his body temperature ran furnace-hot at all times.

  “After all I’ve done. All the committees I’ve chaired, the funds I’ve raised. It’s the cruelest turn of fate I’ve ever experienced.”

  The moment struck her.

  “Tell me I’m not becoming my father.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Violet.”

  “I mean it. Every cell of my being is screaming. Telling me to fight. Reminding me that even as I sit here, rumors are becoming truths.” She threw the blanket off her lap, feeling suddenly hot enough to ignite. “When they did it to my father, my mother let it happen.” She looked at Ed. “I won’t.”

  Ed drummed his fingers on his kneecaps, formulating his words carefully. “I can certainly understand why it may feel that way.” His fingers appeared to mark the pace of his thoughts. “You are vulnerable—”

  Violet opened her mouth to protest.

  He stopped her. “No, now hear me out. You are upset—understandably. You are worried. You haven’t slept well in weeks.”

  Well, obviously.

  “Anyone in your position would feel as you do.”

  She nodded. Yes, they would.

  “What I’m asking you to consider,” he continued, “is that the problem feels bigger than it actually is.”

  Violet shot him a look. This was not a turn she appreciated.

  “I know you don’t like hearing me say that. But this isn’t the same as what we experienced with your parents. Your father was accused of plagiary. Maybe he wasn’t guilty of all of it, but he was guilty of some.”

  Some, yes. Segments of two—perhaps three—of some of his best-known publications seemingly lifted from other historians’ work. But not all. Certainly not all.

  “Cerise and Barb, however—” Ed’s fingers stopped their drumming and he quietly folded his hands in his lap. “They’re not guilty of anything. They’re having a child. We’re about to be grandparents.” He turned and smiled at her. “If we show the community how much we love this child, how can others not do the same?”

  Love was exactly what she was trying to show, of course. A fierce, protective love, yes, but when had protecting the ones you loved become wrong? Ed would agree in theory, she knew, but he wasn’t prepared for such an indirect assault. His was a life of science—measurable, provable, repeatable. Violet, however, had other skills. She could see the unseen.

  “Dearest Ed,” she said, giving his face an affectionate pat. “How I do cherish you.”

  He watched her carefully for a moment. “Does this mean you’re feeling better about the situation? Calmer? Cerise is due to arrive shortly and I want to be sure you’re not going into her visit upset.”

  Violet demurred. “Thank you, love. This has helped a great deal.”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Cerise arrived, Violet had positioned herself at the dining room table with her calendar, a fresh notebook, three colors of Post-its and a new Sharpie. She’d allowed Ed to gather the supplies for her and had even acquiesced when he wouldn’t let her clear the lunch dishes from the table.

  She was ready.

  A new member of her family, their first grandchild, was coming into the world in a matter of months. Preparing to become a grandmother was serious business, and fulfilling her responsibilities as the mother of a mother-to-be, even more so.

  After all, if there was one thing Violet knew for certain, it was that Cerise had no idea what she was in for. But then, how could she? No woman in the history of time ever had. It was one of humanity’s greatest conspiracies. Our whole lives spent listening to women spin tales about the wonders of motherhood, of its miracle and majesty, but none of them ever quantifying its darker truths—that every ounce of a mother’s hopefulness and joy is matched, drop for drop, by the darkly crippling weight of her ultimate helplessness, by the profound isolation that comes with one becoming two. That every moment is haunted by motherhood’s twin ghosts, Guilt and Failure.

  And yet, she would never withhold motherhood from Cerise. To not be a mother seemed as inconceivable to Violet today as it had all those decades ago when she longed so deeply for a child of her own. Ironic though it may seem, the joy she’d felt when Cerise came along was unspeakable, the reward worth the years of heartbreak.

  The front door squealed open and shut, releasing Violet from her thoughts and capturing with it a pocket of winter’s cold glare.

  “Hi, Mom.” Cerise kissed her quickly on the cheek and she could feel the chill on her lips, just as she had all those hundreds of afternoons after school.

  Cerise dropped a pile of books onto the table and Violet wondered whether she should be carrying all that weight at this stage in her pregnancy. She held her tongue. There were too many other items to discuss.

  “Hello, dear. Have you eaten, or can Daddy make you a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks.” She gave her belly an affectionate pat. “We just finished lunch.”

  Violet’s breath caught unexpectedly in her throat. She’d patted her belly the same way when she was expecting Cerise—a gentle Hello, I’m here from Mom to baby. Her daughter was about to become a mother. Oh, the joy of it.

  “Cerise, I—” There were so many things to say, so many fundamental things. Cerise looked at her, expectant, and she knew they were having a moment, unspoken but clear, the lifelong resonance of all that had begun with a gentle pat on her belly.

  And then, she couldn’t. The words would not come. She felt the threat of tears, a great knot of them, naughty toddlers knocking about behind her eyes, ready to tumble.

  “—I think you ought to let Daddy make you a sandwich, anyway. Just in case you do get hungry.”

  “All right. Baby does love turkey and Swiss.”

  Violet took a deep breath and restraightened her collection of supplies. Then she began their work with a calendar discussion.

  Cerise was due on May first—the perfect date.

  “Wonderful. You’ll have all summer to take long walks together, go to the park. You’ll have your baby weight off in no time.” It had taken her far too long to shed the weight she’d gained with Cerise, though things were different in those days. She was lucky to have had her daughter during a slice in time in which elastic waistbands were easy to come by. These days, if you weren’t being forced to wear a belt so tight it took your breath away, you were struggling to keep your waistband where God had meant it to be—which, as she’d told more than a few saleswomen, was certainly not just above the buttocks.

  “I think we should begin by making a list of items you’ll need. Eventually, you’ll have to create a baby registry and this will serve as its core.”

  Cerise nodded agreeably.

  “Now, your father and I have already discussed it and we would very much like to buy the crib for you.”

  “Wow, Mom. That’s very generous. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled and reached for the locket at her throat, taking its chain gent
ly between her fingers. “We love you very much, Cerise.”

  “I know. I love you, too.” She reached across the table for Violet’s hand, stroking her thumb along the veiny ridges that ran from her knuckles to her wrist, just as she’d done as a girl. Violet paused and closed her eyes, silently scolding the toddlers again for threatening to misbehave. She regained control and looked up.

  “Of course, that only takes care of one crib. You and Barb will need to make plans for buying the second.”

  “A second crib?”

  Violet nodded.

  “Why would we need another?”

  She had figured this could be a sticking point. “For when baby sleeps elsewhere.”

  “You mean, like a portable one?”

  No, that was not what she meant, but she was willing to play this out. “If that’s how you’d like to treat the child, then, yes, a portable crib could suffice.”

  Cerise’s nose wrinkled with confusion. “I don’t think I understand. If you’re not talking about a portable one, then—”

  And then it was there, the light of recognition in her eyes.

  “Are you trying to imply that we’ll need a second crib for the father’s house?”

  Violet sat motionless. This was not her burden to sort.

  “Mother, we’ve told you a hundred times—” She picked up a pen and began pounding its clicker on the table. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open, shut.

  “Cerise, please do not abuse my Stickley.”

  “Uuugghh!” She threw the pen across the table and collapsed violently against the back of her chair. Violet heard a tiny crack as she hit and the sound of it made her grimace. The dining room set had been her tenth anniversary present.

  “I should have known.” Cerise had lost the pen but continued to abuse the table with her index finger. She glared at Violet, the chill on her face as obstinate as the mid-winter weather outside their dining room window.