Evergreen Tidings from the Baumgartners

by Gretchen Anthony

  Cerise closed her eyes, knowing she was going to hear about the “girls” reference later.

  “We certainly are a team.” Barb’s tone was jovial but Cerise recognized the lightly veiled dig for what it was.

  “Well, now, that’s going to become increasingly important as baby grows up. The moment your support for each other breaks down, the entire family is in trouble. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times.”

  She offered the tea selection to Cerise’s dad, but he waved his hand to decline.

  “We’ve had too much coffee today,” Violet said, explaining for him.

  She placed the plate on a side table and assessed the room. Everyone seemed to have what they needed. “Very good.”

  Still, she made no move to sit.

  “Anyway.”

  Cerise recognized that halted stutter—it meant her mother had a story to tell. It also meant she wanted them to ask for it, saving her from looking like a gossip.

  Cerise took the bait. “Someone you know breaking up?”

  Violet frowned and pursed her lips like a disapproving librarian.

  “No. Not breaking up. Not that extreme.” She looked to Cerise’s dad as if for permission, but he didn’t seem to recognize the signal. Or if he did, he wasn’t going to offer it.

  Her mother waited a full breath before going on. “It’s the Endreses. You know, Kyle’s parents.”

  Cerise couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her mother’s constant need to place people in social context.

  “Yeah? What about them?”

  “Uff. Such a mess. But it’s not my place to speak.”

  Barb egged her on. “Though you’re worried about them?”

  “Of course I’m worried. Eldris pinches every penny since Richard lost his job—and he’s gone every night to Lord-knows-where—and with Kyle being arrested, who knows—”

  Cerise and Barb both interrupted.

  “Kyle’s been arrested?”

  Ed interjected. “No. Now, Violet, you have to be careful about what you’re saying.” He palmed the air as if clearing it of misinformation. “His nonprofit appears to be under investigation. Apparently, some of his donations have been showing up in all that ‘The Watchers’ business. But—as of yet—they haven’t charged him with anything, and Richard’s hired a very good lawyer, just in case.”

  Cerise felt an ache in her belly that, for the first time in a week, wasn’t related to her incision. She hated that they’d been so consumed with the baby they hadn’t even known.

  “We need to call him,” she said. Barb gave her a sidelong glance and nodded.

  “All in good time,” said Violet. “I shouldn’t have even said anything. Your worrying isn’t of any help to Kyle or his parents.”

  She reached for one of the bags she’d brought with her.

  “Now, then. A few items of consequence that we can do something about.” She pulled an elaborately colored piece of card stock from the bag and handed it to Cerise.

  “You printed birth announcements?”

  “Not printed. Drafted. Just to get you started with some ideas.”

  “He doesn’t even have a name yet,” said Barb.

  “Which is the next item on the agenda,” said Violet, pointing at Barb as if she’d just made the most salient point of the morning. “I’d like to get a date on the church’s calendar for the baptism, but I can’t do that until they at least have a name to put in the datebook.”

  Cerise felt the heat in the room begin to rise and knew immediately that its source sat beside her.

  Barb put a hand on Cerise’s knee as if preemptively restraining her. “Violet, stop.”

  “You don’t like that one? I have more samples.” She reached for her bag, every bit the innocent. Cerise suddenly recognized how skilled her mother was at playing every turn, every moment to her advantage. How many times in her life had she witnessed the same phenomenon without recognizing the source and depth of its power?

  “I’m not talking about the announcements,” said Barb.

  “No?” Violet blinked once but otherwise did not move.

  She was going to make her say it aloud.

  “No,” Barb said.

  Lord, this was becoming the showdown at the O.K. Corral. Cerise wanted to intervene. At least, she knew she ought to want to.

  Instead, her eyes glued themselves to the carpet. The corner of the rug was beginning to fray. Maybe she ought to do something about that.

  How long had baby been napping? He was due to wake up soon—she could feel the pressure in her boobs.

  “We appreciate all you’re doing to help.” Barb patted Cerise’s knee, establishing their we-ness. “But we haven’t decided these things yet—especially his name.”

  “Of course you haven’t had time to decide,” said her mother. “You’ve been doing exactly what you should be doing—giving all of your love and attention to your infant son.”

  Cerise wanted to nod. Yes, that’s what they had been doing. Yes, that’s exactly what they needed to do. Could they move on now?

  Was that crack in the ceiling new?

  “That’s precisely why,” her mother continued, “I do these things. To help. To allow you to keep focusing on all the truly important work.”

  Cerise felt Barb shift beside her.

  God, the room was stifling hot.

  “To be perfectly honest, Violet,” said Barb, “we don’t even know if we’re going to have him baptized.”

  Cerise looked at her. She couldn’t disguise her shock. It was true, yes. They’d considered forgoing the ceremony. Did it even mean anything to her? She didn’t know. But.

  Crap.

  “Cerise, is this true?”

  “Well, I—It’s just—You know. We have to discuss it.”

  Damn it, Barb!

  “Well,” her mother said, physically closing herself off to the rest of the room, all folded arms and crossed legs. “I can see you think I’m intruding.”

  Cerise opened her mouth to argue, but Barb squeezed her knee. She squeaked.

  “Thank you, Violet,” said Barb. Cerise eyed her, never having noticed before her partner’s ability to mimic sincerity with her mother’s nearly identical victorious undertones.

  “Of course.” Her mother was clipped, the smile on her face kept in reserve for moments like these. “You just let me know when you do want me to help.”

  “Absolutely,” said Barb.

  “Wonderful,” said her mother.

  “Yes,” said Barb.

  “Family is so very important,” said her mother.

  “It is,” said Barb.

  “And you are family,” said her mother.

  “I’m blessed,” said Barb.

  “Yes,” said her mother.

  “Yes,” said Barb.

  God, someone stop them.

  “Did you know,” said her dad, finally, blessedly stepping in, “that it remains commonplace in many cultures for the mother to eat the placenta after giving birth?”

  32

  Violet

  “YOU’RE GOING TO have to dig, Ed. They’re all the way in the back.” Violet had dragged her unwitting husband into Cerise’s childhood bedroom in search of clues.

  “How many are there?”

  How many are there? For all his smarts the man could be dumb as a stick.

  “Four. Four years of high school, four yearbooks.”

  He climbed down from the chair he’d been using to reach the back of the closet and handed her a stack of cleanly creased, leather-bound books. He returned the chair to the corner of the bedroom and pulled one of the books from Violet’s hands.

  “Looks like she hardly ever opened them,” Ed said. “That was a perfectly good waste of a hundred dollars.”

  “Nonsense.
Memories are never a waste of money.”

  They headed out the door toward the kitchen.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?”

  Violet registered the question but didn’t answer.

  The idea that the answer she sought may lie within these books had come to her last night in bed, when she suddenly remembered something Cerise had said—that the baby’s father wasn’t just some donor. Cerise knew him. Of course! Why had she overlooked the possibility? It was so obvious upon reflection.

  Granted, Violet wasn’t back to her old self yet. Sleep eluded her since the accident, though she tried her best to keep that fact to herself. If she lay still until Ed’s breathing fell into its raspy, lazy rhythm, he remained none the wiser to her insomnia and, therefore, unable to tattle on her to the doctor. So she’d begun a daily ritual of compiling a list of all the subjects she’d contemplated during her late-night solitude—and last night’s list was dedicated to the health and security of her family.

  Of all the wonderful things Cerise and Barb had already done for their son—and they were becoming such loving, responsible parents—it turned out they’d neglected to legally protect him should his biological father someday choose to make a claim on him. And if there was anything that getting to know Amanda Hesse had taught Violet, it was the importance of maintaining a family line. Working with a woman so historically rooted made her ever more resolute about one fact: no two-bit absentee sperm-only father was going to waltz into their lives and claim what was only his by a force no more natural than a sneeze. It was up to her to root him out and size him up. She would be ready, come what may.

  She put her stack of yearbooks on the kitchen counter and went to the coffeepot to refresh the cup she’d poured nearly an hour ago.

  “Can I warm yours up?” she asked, motioning toward Ed’s cup with the pot.

  “No. Thank you.” He thumbed loosely through one of the books, stopping on a black-and-white photo of girls in polyester athletic uniforms and perfect ponytails.

  “I forgot Cerise played volleyball.”

  “Three years.” Violet returned the coffeepot to the warmer. “You were never able to make it to her games.”

  “Ah...” Ed nodded, continuing to flip pages. “I remember the science fair, though. She borrowed one of my lab coats.”

  “That was middle school, Ed. Not high school.”

  “Right.”

  “Hand me the one from her senior year. I want to start there.”

  Ed shuffled through the pile, calculating.

  “Two thousand and five. Your daughter graduated in the year 2005.”

  “Yes,” he said, handing her the correct book. “Right again.”

  Violet flipped immediately to the senior class photos.

  “You never told me what you’re looking for.”

  More questions. Had he always been like this, with the, what are you doing now? And all the rifling through the cupboards for a snack. The calories were beginning to show at his belt line.

  “Violet?”

  She looked up, knowing that he’d keep at her until she relented.

  “You never told me what you’re looking for.”

  “Names,” she sputtered. “Just—names. The baby shower. I need to know who to invite.” She hated to lie to him but he’d left her no choice.

  “Can’t you just ask Cerise?”

  “As if she and Barb have time to make lists.”

  She hated snapping at him and yet, here she’d gone and done it, anyway. The shock flashed across his face.

  “I know I missed a lot while Cerise was growing up. That’s not news, Violet. But it also doesn’t mean I’m incapable of being an integral part of her life now. And our grandson’s.”

  Violet retreated immediately and smiled at him.

  “I know it’s been very difficult for you since the accident,” he said. “But don’t forget that I’ve been here, too. And that’s new for me. I don’t know what my next chapter holds. Except, of course—”

  She could hear the words swell in his throat.

  “Except that I wish it to include more time with family.”

  Dear Ed. Always such good intentions. “Of course, dear. Forgive me.”

  He cleared his throat and nodded, a sign he’d said all he intended to for the time being.

  She switched tack.

  “You know, I just remembered.” She reached for his hand. “I promised Eldris I’d swing by and pick up the volunteers list for the Mother’s Day brunch at church. Kyle has her worried sick. She’s in no shape to make phone calls.” She took a sorrowful breath and shook her head slowly. “Just imagine what she might end up saying.”

  “I need to swing by Home Depot later. We can go then—after lunch.”

  Violet raised her voice by half an octave.

  “Do you think you could possibly go now?”

  That worked. He shrugged and fished his keys from his pocket.

  She waited until she heard the front door click.

  She flipped the yearbook open to where she’d left off.

  Daniel Anderson wrote, “Have a great summer and a great life.” How truly inspired. Given that level of eloquence she assumed his career had peaked as manager of the car wash.

  Brent Barnes. Calvin Bundtworth. Derek Carter. None of them did much more than sign their names.

  George Clark scribbled his initials over his face.

  Finally, Erik Clarkson. Violet remembered him—Enid Olson’s grandson. He’d been confirmed with Cerise at Faithful Redeemer but had hardly graced the sanctuary since.

  “Knock ’em dead at college,” he wrote. “Remember, E=MC2, except after C.”

  Well, he was obviously bound for a state school.

  When would this agony end? And how on earth had she gotten here, a grandmother forced to wade through pages of barely postpubescent men who, none of them, hadn’t shown even the remotest potential to become a father. To make babies, yes—she was certain they’d been up to plenty of that nonsense. But to become a man of character enough so as to eventually father her grandchild—not a single one.

  She wouldn’t even be in this predicament if they’d done the same as the Hesses and sent Cerise to private school. She’d argued for it for years. But her words fell mute upon Ed—his belief in public schools as the core of a strong democracy. A respectable argument, certainly, except when it’s your child whose IQ is suffering.

  Nor could she deny that her current predicament was also partly the Hesses’ fault. After all, they’d sent Barb to an all-girls boarding school. So when Violet wrote to inquire about any potential donors stemming from their daughter’s earlier friendships, Amanda Hesse replied with the obvious biological impossibility.

  And then, curiously, she’d added, “You should know that I make it a policy to stay clear of my daughter’s vagina business.”

  The vulgarity shocked her.

  But the letter had come, too, with documented proof of their family’s Mayflower Colony ancestry. Violet had chosen to dwell on that good news.

  She returned to her research.

  Donald Davies wrote, “It was a blast at prom with you.”

  Violet stopped. Cerise hadn’t gone to prom with any boy named Donald Davies. She’d gone with a group of single girls, and only after Violet had bought her a dress and threatened to wear it herself if Cerise didn’t at least make plans.

  She looked again. Could she have misread? No, his penmanship was as clear as her own. “It was a blast at prom with you.”

  She picked up a pencil and wrote, “Donald Davies—prom?” on the yellow legal pad at her side.

  Ed would be back in no more than ten minutes. She had to pick up the pace.

  Seth Davison. Christopher Doyle. Allen Dwight. Eric Eastman. Kyle Endres. Evan Erickson.

  Wait. S
he backtracked. Was that Kyle? She could hardly believe Eldris had let him wear a Looney Tunes tie for his senior portrait. Would that child ever grow up?

  G... H... M... O... S... She’d flipped nearly to the end and still, not a single standout. Her list gave only three vague clues: the faux prom date, a boy named Jeremy Michelson, who looked to be about twelve years old but who took the time to include a decent and wise quote from Benjamin Franklin next to his signature, and a classmate named Barry Thomas, who, himself, was headed to Princeton and considered Cerise a member of his “Eastern Time Zone posse.”

  Nowhere on these pages did it look as if she’d discovered the father of her grandchild.

  She reviewed her notes. Nearly an hour’s research and she’d discovered only two flimsy possibilities. Uff. There was Kyle, too, of course—the bile rose in her throat every time she considered him—but he was engaged long before baby happened. There was no ethical path to him fathering a child outside of his relationship with Rhonda.

  She heard the front door just as she flipped the book closed.

  “Violet?”

  “Right here, Ed. Just where you left me.”

  He appeared at the kitchen door.

  “Ah, here you are.”

  “Yes, dear. Here I am.”

  She noticed immediately that his recently dry-cleaned shirt now sported a yellow blotch down the middle.

  “How did you have time to stop for a hot dog, Ed? You weren’t even gone long enough to get out of the car.” She stood, soaked a clean cloth with water and immediately went to work on the stain. “Dare I ask whether you picked up the list from Eldris?”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  Was it? That was to be the entire purpose of his trip.

  “I stopped by the house but no one was home. Knocked. Rang the bell. No cars in the garage. So I headed over to Home Depot to look for that piece I need for the sink.”

  Ed had been trying to fix the sink in the guest bathroom for going on two weeks now. Preretirement, Violet would have called the handyman and had it taken care of within a day. Now, though...

  Good gracious. Her landscape was shifting on too many fronts.

  “I was going to resist, I really was. But it was the good hot dog vendor today. The one with the cheddar dogs.”