Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners

by Gretchen Anthony

  “Half?” Cerise’d made a habit of checking Barb’s hyperbole ever since she’d heard her compare her childhood home to Arlington National Cemetery in its “population of swallowed souls.”

  Barb shrugged. “At least half. The rest of the shelves were filled with my mom’s self-published anthropological studies of seminomadic Incan tribes and my dad’s Kama Sutra art collection.”

  Cerise wasn’t sure which direction to turn first. “Your mom’s an anthropologist?”

  “Not officially. Not any more than my dad’s an art historian.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Never be fooled by the prestige money can buy.”

  Cerise let the subject drop. Nor did she and Barb discuss Violet’s latest angling any further. They didn’t need to. Well before they’d even chosen a donor, Cerise and Barb agreed never to disclose the identity of the father. Of course, if Shrimpy asked someday—and was mature enough to process the information—then, yes, they’d tell. But other than that, it wasn’t anyone’s business.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY at work, Cerise downloaded a file with the results from her team’s latest round of testing. She scanned the data and sighed: more bad news. They’d been testing a new biodegradable compound for months, and with the trend she saw now, they were headed back to the starting line.

  When her cell phone buzzed, she was in a foul mood and knew better than to pick up, but there was something about a ringing phone that she’d never been able to resist, an etiquette drilled into her as a child.

  Anyway, if she didn’t answer, the phone would ring every few minutes until she did.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What does Barb think about the options for the baby’s room? I’ll need to get moving if I’m going to hire someone to paint.”

  Cerise dropped her head onto her hand and ran a thumb along her forehead, smoothing her worry creases. “Well, I think the patriotic theme is definitely out. But, we were both sort of fond of the family tree—our family on one side, Barb’s on the other.” It was an obvious point but she felt it necessary to specify, given the question she suspected was coming.

  Her mom hmm’d on the line. “I thought you might like that option. You’ve always been family-centric.” Cerise could hear the shuffle of books on the other end and she imagined the oversize wallpaper binders that constituted many a childhood afternoon at Benjamin Moore.

  “Of course, an accurate family history comes with complications, you know,” her mom said.

  And there it was. Not so much an interrogation as an insinuation, one that she’d let rise and curve like a question mark.

  Cerise, however, refused to play her game. Instead, she waited quietly.

  And so did her mother.

  The grandfather clock in her parents’ entryway ticked away seconds of their lives.

  “Cerise?”

  “Yes?”

  “Neither one of us is ignorant to how nature works.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “So you know what I’m asking.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you’re obviously choosing not to tell me.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “So, perhaps it would help you to know why I’m asking.”

  Why, indeed.

  Cerise waited, knowing her mother was going to continue regardless.

  “DNA can be extremely consequential.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” She let out a tiny, derisive snort. She couldn’t help it. Her mother called her at work—in a world-class scientific laboratory, no less—then tried to claim superior knowledge about the significance of DNA.

  “I do not appreciate your attitude, Cerise.”

  “Would you appreciate it more if I told you I was too busy for this conversation and hung up?”

  “Don’t be cute.” She paused, but just for a moment. “What if there’s something awful in baby’s DNA? Or, even more, what’s if there’s something wonderful? A predisposition to extreme intelligence or being the descendant of a famous historical figure?”

  She paused again.

  “Did I ever tell you about my great-aunt Tabitha?”

  “About a million times. I know all about her grandfather spying on George Washington as he crossed the Delaware.”

  “It wasn’t her grandfather, it was her great-great-great-grandfather. And he wasn’t spying on General Washington, he’d single-handedly infiltrated the Hessian troops waiting to ambush them on the other side.”

  Cerise heard her mother speaking but she wasn’t taking in the words. Instead, she pulled out her notebook and reviewed her notes from the morning’s team meeting, determined to multitask her way through this latest lecture. It did not improve her mood. Their project timeline looked close to hosed.

  Damn.

  “Cerise, are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”

  “Of course, Mother, but I have absolutely no idea what the Hessians or our relatives who spied on them have anything to do with you acting so—” She stopped, forcing herself to get control before she said something her mother would refuse to forget. “We’ve asked you to drop this. Why do you insist on making it an issue?”

  “My great-aunt Tabitha was offensive and a bully. No matter who was speaking to her.”

  “And?”

  “And she got away with it because everyone knew her history, that she came from the same stock as a man brave enough—and, quite frankly, just foolish enough—to infiltrate the Hessians and in so doing help win one of the most decisive victories of the Revolutionary War.”

  Cerise felt her heart drop and her hands begin to shake, a sure sign she was near the end of her patience. “What is your point?” Her pitched voice rang back at her through the phone.

  “Family is the face we bear to the world, Cerise. Don’t let your child’s—” She paused. “Don’t let your child’s origin story be the most interesting thing people hear. Wouldn’t you rather baby be known as sharing the same DNA as a world-class historian instead of that of some faceless donor? Give baby a story.”

  She went on, but Cerise couldn’t hear beyond the roaring in her ears. How dare she? The audacity to assume she knew anything about this decision. This was Cerise’s child. Hers and Barb’s. Why wasn’t that enough?

  “Frankly, Mom, I know you have your own good reasons for being so hung up about family, but I’ve got to be honest—it’s become just short of pathological. Your past is your past, but this baby is happening now. And you can’t seem to get on board. You say you’re supportive of our choice, but you refuse to respect our privacy. You say you’re not interested in discussing my sexuality, but you seem pretty fascinated by just how I managed to get the sperm and egg together at the same baby party.”

  She’d become aware of a silence on the other end of the line, followed by several seconds of what sounded like an elephant blowing through a straw.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am,” said her mother, though her voice was tight and Cerise knew she’d better get to the point.

  “So this is how it’s going to be from now on. You keep asking. You keep pushing. You stay all hung up on this family issue of yours. But Barb and I aren’t going to play along. We’re going to smile and turn the other cheek and bring this baby into the world happy and healthy.”

  She waited for a response but the line was silent.

  “Got that? Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  “Crystal.” She could tell the word had to be pushed from between taut lips.

  “Delightful. And before I hang up, Barb wanted me to tell you that the Hesse family keeps an extensive history of its genealogy. Has done for generations. I’m sure Mrs. Hesse would love to share it. Would you like me to put you in touch?”

  “If that’s what you and Barb would like to do.”
<
br />   Ugh. Her mother’s passive-aggression was enough to melt the phone line.

  “Terrific. I’ll send you her contact information just as soon as I get home. Oh, and, Mother? It wasn’t just some donor.”

  She hung up, only to realize what she had just done.

  “Watchers” Group Expands To Kansas City

  by Harvey Arpell,

  staff reporter, Minneapolis/St. Paul Standard

  March 1, 2018

  Kansas City, MO—“The Watchers,” the activist group that claimed responsibility for the construction of two statues outside the Federal Reserve Bank in Minneapolis late last year, now claim to have erected a statue outside the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City. The installation was found early this morning.

  Photos posted to the group’s Instagram show a statue of a man lifting his face to the sky and cupping his hands behind his ears, as if listening. The Kansas City installment differs slightly from the Minneapolis statues, both of which depicted women and children in poverty. All three figures have been constructed primarily of chicken wire and eyeglasses.

  Kansas City Police declined to comment, though they did confirm that the statue has been removed.

  21

  Violet

  VIOLET SAT AT Eldris’s kitchen table and picked at her chicken salad. Not that she wasn’t hungry—she hadn’t eaten breakfast—but her head was full of the previous day’s call to Cerise, leaving little room for appetite.

  A mother could never fix the world enough to put her heart at rest for her child.

  Despite the mood, Eldris buzzed about the kitchen, opening cupboards and offering crackers or a dash of salt and pepper, which Violet waved away one after the other.

  “Sit down, Eldris. You’re making me dizzy, all this back and forth.”

  “You know I’m not a very good sitter. Have you checked your phone? Has Ed called?”

  “He’s hardly been gone twenty minutes.”

  Violet put down her fork and closed her eyes against the commotion. There were so many balls whirling about in her head, so many worries to catch. The consequences of dropping one felt nearly too much to bear.

  It didn’t surprise her that Cerise had grown obstinate about the baby’s paternity. She hadn’t ever been a pushover, not even as a child. During Cerise’s third grade year, Violet had received no fewer than three phone calls from the mother of Robert Brewster, a boy on her bus. “Cerise hit Robert in the face with her backpack and gave him a bloody nose.” Then it was, “Cerise ripped Robert’s coat from his hands and nearly tore off his entire fingernail.”

  When she got the last call, “Cerise left Robert with bruises all up and down his arm,” she sat her daughter down and wouldn’t let her leave until satisfied she’d learned the truth. It took several hours and a threat to withhold her lasagna dinner before a confession finally came.

  “He teases Jake Engquist,” Cerise had said, refusing to meet her mother’s eye.

  “The boy with Down syndrome?”

  “Yes. He stutters and mixes up his words and Robert makes fun of him. The whole bus laughs. Nobody sticks up for Jake. And sometimes I don’t even think he understands he’s being teased.”

  “Are you telling me you beat up on Robert Brewster because he teases Jake Engquist?”

  “I guess.” Cerise had shrugged and nodded. Violet still couldn’t see her face but saw early tears begin to gather on her chin.

  “Cerise, you know we’ve taught you there are better choices than violence. Why didn’t you come talk to me?”

  “Because I knew you’d make me stop.” She’d finally raised her head and Violet could see, yes, she was crying. “It felt good to see Robert scared for once, instead of Jake.”

  Violet had nodded and hugged her for several long minutes. Then she sent her daughter to bed without dinner and told her there would be far greater consequences if she ever caught wind of more fighting. After Cerise was asleep, she dialed Mrs. Engquist and advised her of the teasing. Said Cerise had stepped in once or twice, but didn’t explain how. That much of the story, at least, she could fix.

  So of course she knew Cerise wouldn’t back down on the paternity issue. And yet, this was a worry Violet couldn’t seem to let go. Where was the line between worry and wisdom in mothering?

  She opened her eyes in time to see Eldris scooping more chicken salad onto her already-full plate.

  Violet took the bowl and spoon from her hands and set them aside. Then she patted the place at the table beside her. “If you don’t come sit down, I’m going to have to go lie down.”

  Eldris surrendered and took a seat.

  “He’ll call when he’s on his way home, Eldris. But remember that won’t be for a good couple of hours.”

  Today was the first opportunity they’d had to set Ed onto Richard’s trail. Eldris had come downstairs this morning to find her husband in jeans and a sweater, stuffing his laptop into his briefcase. When she pushed him for answers, he said he was just heading up to St. Cloud to “meet a guy.”

  “St. Cloud is at least an hour and a half drive,” Violet reminded her. “Maybe closer to two, given how much snow we got last night.”

  “I just hope Ed finds him. You’re sure you told him River City Brews? I’m almost positive that’s the name Richard gave me. I mean it could have been River City News. That would make more sense, I guess. But not if they were going to lunch, which he said they were.”

  “I told him River City Brews and even made him look up the address on the internet. He has a printed map and a phone number in case he gets lost.” She nodded, pleased and a bit surprised at her ability to concoct a compelling story on such short notice. This had all unfolded in less than an hour. “I told him I’d overheard Barb talking about their beer and that I very much hoped to give her some for her birthday. It’s coming up.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize. Is that true?”

  Violet couldn’t remember exactly. She changed the subject. She needed to think about something lighter. “What did you ever decide about your mother-of-the-groom dress? Are you going with the sea foam or the navy?”

  Eldris had been back and forth to Violet’s house at least a dozen times in the past week with armloads of options. Violet had rated most of them a solid C+, though it was nearly impossible to judge since Eldris insisted on wearing a T-shirt throughout the entire process.

  “If I leave deodorant stains I can’t take them back,” she’d said.

  “And just how am I supposed to determine what’s flattering or not when your shirt is hollering at me to Call Dean to Keep Your Plumbing Clean?”

  The parade continued until they’d narrowed it to two choices, each at least a solid B+.

  “I’m going with the sea foam. Though... Oh, I don’t know. Are you sure it doesn’t wash me out? I’ve been told green isn’t my color.”

  “Who on earth told you that?”

  “My mother. Every year I wanted a green dress for Easter but she always said, ‘That color makes you look as if you’re about to turn your stomach.’ Of course, my sister can wear anything.”

  Dead and gone for nearly twenty years and her mother’s ghost still haunted Eldris’s head, as cranky and judgmental as ever. Even at the funeral, there was poor Eldris in tears because the Ladies Auxiliary had used thick-sliced ham in the sandwich buns rather than thinner deli slices.

  “She hated gristle!” she’d wailed, as Violet shoved a tissue into her fist and ushered her out of the rapidly filling Fellowship Hall.

  “Well, I say this wedding is your chance to finally have the green dress you’ve always wanted. If it had washed you out, I would have told you so.”

  As if on cue, the door leading to the basement opened and Kyle emerged holding a manila folder and looking like he had spent the better portion of the morning on hands and knees. His jeans were caked with dust an
d he had what looked suspiciously like a spiderweb hanging from his brow line.

  He brushed at the web-ish strand with the back of his hand.

  “Hi, Mrs. Baumgartner. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Nor I you, Kyle. We were just discussing your wedding, in fact.”

  “Oh? Good things, I hope.”

  “We were just deciding on my mother-of-the-groom dress,” said Eldris. “I think I’m going to wear green.”

  “Great,” he said, though Violet suspected from the blank look on his face that if she asked him in ten minutes what his mother planned to wear to his wedding, he’d have no recollection this conversation ever took place. Kyle always struck her as somewhat synthetic, the male version of those cheese slices she’d watched Eldris put on his sandwiches as a child—real-looking, but wrapped in a flimsy plastic shell. In fact, perhaps the abundance of those cheese slices was one of the reasons he’d developed as he had.

  He placed his folder on the counter and flipped it open to the top page, losing himself in whatever he found there.

  “Taking inventory again?” Eldris had made her way to the refrigerator and seemed to, as if by reflex, be pulling the ingredients for a sandwich from its shelves.

  “Yeah.” He traced the rows of data with his forefinger. “There’s just something I still can’t make sense of.”

  “Don’t you worry.” She slathered mayonnaise across one slice of bread then reached for the mustard. “You’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “And such a great year for donations.” He said the words aloud but Violet sensed he was in his own head.

  Eldris placed a plate with two sandwich triangles in front of him and made for the fridge again, this time pulling out the milk.

  Catching sight of the carton, he put his hand out to stop her. “No, thanks,” he said. “Rhonda has me off dairy.”

  Violet watched as Eldris’s face fell, a sentinel stripped of her charge. At least Barb had the decency to allow Violet a voice in her daughter’s life.