Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Hi,” said Ivy. “Are you busy?”

  “Not too busy for you, dear.” How were some children able to wheedle into your heart against your will? And what was the expression on the girl’s face? Something to do with that box? “Take your coat off. What are you carrying there?”

  “It’s my rock collection. I did it for science class.”

  “Do you care to show me?”

  A flush of pink pride radiated from Ivy. “Okay.”

  “Well then, tea I think,” said Dorothy.

  Over tea and homemade oatmeal cookies, Dorothy got a short lecture on the kinds of rocks there were and how one told them apart and what their properties were. She was amused and charmed by the delight Ivy took in her recitation and in the sound of words. In the coquina sample, Ivy pointed out the visible fossil shells. “It’s composed mainly of marine or freshwater mollusc shells and shell fragments cemented together with calcium carbonate,” she said seriously.

  “Wherever did you find so many interesting specimens?”

  “Oh, I didn’t find them,” she said, sounding very disappointed indeed. “I’m not old enough to go by myself and nobody else is really interested. It’s kind of a geek thing, I guess. But I got an A+ for my project.”

  “You are to be congratulated, then. There is nothing remotely geeky about an A+.”

  “I guess.” She shrugged, but looked pleased.

  “So, if you don’t hunt for the specimens yourself, how do you come by them?”

  “There are rock stores, but not around here. So I buy them off the Internet. It’s expensive, though, for the best ones. There’s this one called plumbogummite from China that sells for hundreds and hundreds of dollars. But most aren’t that much. There’s this stone called selenite from Algeria that looks like a rose. It costs fifteen dollars and I’m saving up. I want to go to the old quarry. You can find all sorts of things there, even stuff like azurite and datolite. Aurite is blue, of course, sometimes there’s yellow in it, too, and that’s because it’s mixed with malachite.”

  “Ivy, I have to say, I couldn’t help but notice that you were upset when you came in. Was Cathy teasing you about your collection?” Watching Ivy’s face fall, Dorothy could have kicked herself.

  “No, not like that, but it’s kind of about her.”

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t know. My brother was with someone. I didn’t like him. Or I don’t think I did. But he kind of helped me. I don’t know. He’s weird.”

  “Who, your brother?”

  “Yeah,” Ivy rolled her eyes and grinned, “I’ll say. But I meant the other guy.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I promised I wouldn’t tell.” She bit her lip. “Bobby was in the guy’s truck. An older guy.” She told an edited version of what had happened. Bobby’s friend had chased the girls away, and gave her a lift.

  Dorothy considered. Someone Ivy wasn’t supposed to say was with her brother. Someone with a truck. It didn’t take much for Dorothy to figure out whose truck they were discussing. Seeing Albert Erskine with Bobby Evans was one thing, thinking about Ivy in a truck with him was something else. But he had helped her.

  “It was nice of him, wasn’t it, to defend you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Still, Ivy, if ever you are uncomfortable with someone, you mustn’t go with them. Surely your parents have told you this.” Dorothy was out of her depth here. This was a parent’s job. Someone would have to be told, or perhaps they knew? What then? There was no comprehending what went on in other people’s houses.

  “Sure. But Bobby’s friends with this guy. So it’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “I think you have to talk to your parents about this, dear.”

  “But I can’t tell them. I promised.” She broke a cookie up into small pieces, but didn’t eat it. “I promised.”

  “There are some promises that are perfectly all right to break, I think, particularly if you believe something dangerous is going on.”

  “Like what?”

  Yes, like what, exactly? What was she suggesting? What gossip was she spreading here, and to a child? It wouldn’t do. “Oh, I don’t know, Ivy. I just think you shouldn’t go in cars with older boys, even if they are with your brother, and especially if they make you uncomfortable.”

  “I just didn’t want to go for a drive, is all.” Her voice sounded defensive now. She put the lid back on her rock collection.

  “Ivy, how would you like to earn some money for your rock collection?” It seemed there was no end to the surprising things Dorothy might find herself saying.

  “Sure, how?” Ivy popped a piece of cookie into her mouth.

  “Well, since you’re here so often, which I find very generous, and since you help so much, I’m simply going to have to start paying you.”

  “Paying me? To come here?”

  “Absolutely. You’ll have to work for it, of course. But it’s only what you’ve been doing. Polishing silver and dusting and so forth. Yes. I think that’s a good idea. What do you say?”

  “Sure!”

  “You could come here whenever you wanted, and I would pay you . . . what do you think is fair?”

  “A dollar an hour?” Her eyes were wide, and her mouth slightly open.

  “Oh, perhaps a bit more than that.” Dorothy considered, tilted her head, and said, “Let’s see. School ends at three thirty and if you’re here by three forty-five and then we have tea and you work for an hour or so, I think that’s worth three dollars, don’t you?”

  “If I came every day I could get the selenite in a week!”

  “That seems right. But I do think we need to arrange this with your parents. They need to say it’s all right and we have to think about how you’ll get home. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk home alone, do you?”

  “I do it every day.”

  “Still, I think, if it’s all right with you, I’ll just give your parents a call. What do you think?”

  “I guess,” she said, but she looked worried.

  Dorothy patted Ivy’s arm as she rose to use the phone. “I might just as well call them right now, don’t you agree?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Before he went home, Tom stopped off at Wilton’s to get some things Patty had asked for. He was in the produce department under the fluorescent lights, his hands damp and slightly chilly from the sprinkler intermittently freshening the greens. He picked flat-leaf parsley and put it in a plastic bag. He had turned to the tomatoes and was picking through, feeling for invisible soft spots, enjoying the heft and weight of them warming in his palm, when Dorothy Carlisle tapped him on the shoulder. She wore a greyish blue, soft-looking turtleneck that made her eyes, which were focused on Tom with their usual acuity, appear steely. She was a woman whose face was transformed by a smile—she became impish, girlish, even with that short grey hair. Now, however, she was not smiling and the lines around her mouth set hard, making her look as severe as any British schoolmistress. She carried a basket containing asparagus, eggs and a bunch of fresh basil that perfumed the air between them. Dorothy Carlisle had been much on Tom’s mind since her phone call a few days ago.

  “Hi, Mrs. Carlisle, how are you? I’ve been meaning to pop into the shop and thank you for spending time with Ivy. It means a lot to me. Ivy never knew my mother, never had a grandmother and I think she feels a bit like that around you—not that you’re old or anything, but, well, that wasn’t the wrong thing to say, was it?”

  Her face did then break into that transforming smile. “I am so an old lady, Tom. But one thing I am not is vain about my age. And I’m delighted you don’t mind Ivy helping me. I’ve been worried I overstepped my boundaries. Patty didn’t sound, well, she didn’t sound . . .” She waved her hands in the air as though trying to gat
her words.

  “That’s just Patty, Mrs. Carlisle. She’s maybe a little touchy about people thinking she’s not a good mother or something.”

  “I never meant to imply that.”

  “No, no. But not knowing Ivy was coming round to you, and this teasing business. Rita Cronin mentioned it to me before you did, and I spoke to Ivy about it, but I should have taken it more seriously. It’s such a small town, you don’t think of bullying as going on here. More a big city thing, you know? Anyway, I called the school. Mrs. Sergeant said she’d keep an eye out. She thinks it’s died down, just a passing thing between kids. Cathy Watson, she’s quite a piece of work, I guess.”

  “It does seem that way. But I hope Patty doesn’t think I was judging her in any way. Perhaps I should call her again?”

  “No. No. You don’t need to do that.” He hesitated, remembering what Patty had said when he got off the phone. Interfering old witch! Who does she think she is, taking my kid in like she’s some kind of trailer park stray? It had taken him some time to persuade her it was nice for Ivy to have a grandmotherly figure. When Mrs. Carlisle had dropped her off, watching from the driver’s seat of her boxy brown Volvo station wagon to make sure Ivy got inside the house safely, Tom had been the one to thank her. Patty said only that if Ivy preferred being with somebody else there wasn’t much she could do about it. Tom put Ivy to bed that night and told his daughter her mom didn’t mean it when she said such things, she was just afraid Ivy didn’t love her. And Ivy said she knew. “Mom’s always afraid people don’t love her enough,” she’d said, and those words had kept him up all night, watching Patty sleep with her fist curled in front of her mouth and her legs restless under the sheets. And now, he said to Dorothy, “You can imagine how it is for her, this not being her town, not really.”

  “Yes, I can. We are not a welcoming people. And it is hard to keep track of children nowadays, I imagine.” Dorothy rearranged the eggs and herbs in her basket. “How is Bobby? I see him around town sometimes.”

  Tom shrugged. “He’s a teenager. Doesn’t want to talk to his old man any more, that’s for sure. But then, I don’t suppose I had much to say to my Dad when I was his age. He’ll be all right. He’s taken up basketball after school. Plays nearly every day and we hardly see him. Never thought he was one for sports but I’m glad. Maybe it’ll put some meat on him.”

  “Ah,” said Dorothy. “Well, that’s good then.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Carlisle, I wonder if maybe . . .”

  “What is it, Tom?”

  “I shouldn’t ask. But . . .”

  “Oh my, just out with it, dear.”

  “Would you consider babysitting for us some night?” He threw his hand up as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Naw, forget I asked. I . . .”

  “I think that might be arranged.”

  “Really? Because it’s our anniversary coming up and we haven’t had much time alone lately and I don’t know who I could trust with Ivy. Bobby’s old enough to be left alone for a while, but I don’t like to leave Ivy, even if Bobby is home, and, look . . . I’d really appreciate it.” He knew how desperate he must sound.

  “Oh, wedding anniversary, is it? Well, I understand. William always made quite a production out of such things. I sometimes wonder if men aren’t more romantic than women. When is it, exactly?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t planned anything. I wasn’t sure I could make it happen. Couple of Saturdays from now. I need to make a reservation somewhere.”

  “Yes. Good idea.” She paused and considered the contents of her basket for a moment. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Tom. Perhaps Ivy should stay the night. Better than keeping her up late or having you hurry back from your dinner.”

  Half an hour later, with a bag of groceries under each arm, Tom used his leg to fend off the dog’s exuberance as he stepped in the door and called for Patty.

  “Get down, Rascal. Okay. Good boy. Yes, I love you, too. Now get down!” No answer from Patty. What was that sound? He called again and realized it was the upstairs shower. God, she was only getting around to taking a shower now? He stepped around Rascal, sidestepping to avoid tripping on his wriggling frame, and put the bags of groceries on the kitchen table. Cereal, peanut butter, yogurt, pop, bread, hamburger, chicken legs, carrots, tomatoes, parsley, cucumber, cheese, milk, fish fingers, spaghetti sauce, rice, ice cream. There wasn’t much already in the fridge, which smelled of something gone off, milk maybe. He pinched open the cardboard carton and put it to his nose, jerking his head away quickly and pouring the lumpy milk into the sink, one side of which was filled with dirty breakfast dishes. He tossed out old mushy lettuce, a mouldy piece of cheese and something fuzzy and unidentifiable in a plastic container. He couldn’t figure out what Patty did all day long. The counter was sticky and crumbs crunched underfoot. Rascal sat next to his plastic dish. Hardened food caked the sides and the water bowl was empty. Tom opened a cupboard and pulled out a can of dog food. Rascal cocked his head and barked in an accusatory way.

  “Nobody fed you, again, huh? Sorry, pal.”

  Tom cleaned out the dish, scraping at the dry hard bits with his thumbnail, and spooned in fresh food. He rinsed the water bowl and filled that too. Rascal danced with joy, toenails ticking on the crumb-scattered linoleum. Dogs, thought Tom, were so forgiving.

  He left Rascal to his dinner and climbed the stairs.

  “Patty,” he called, not wanting to frighten her, “it’s me.”

  The water turned off as he stepped onto the landing. “Patty, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” she called back. “You do the groceries?”

  “Yup.”

  “You put them away?”

  “Yes, I put them away. Listen, I have to talk to you about something.”

  He stepped into the steamy bathroom. Patty stood before him wrapped in a towel, her wet, darkened hair streaming around her shoulders. He reached for her, put his arms around her and gathered her close. She smelled of lemon shampoo and soap. Her skin was like that of a porpoise—gleaming and smooth.

  “You’ll get all wet. What’s the matter with you?” She pushed him back.

  He sighed and sat on the toilet seat. Rascal came in, having gulped down his food in the way of all dogs and sat between Tom’s legs, pushing at his knee with his knobbly head, wanting his ears scratched. Tom obliged. The dog burped extravagantly, casting a meaty smell into the air. Tom waved it away. “You know we got an anniversary coming up. What would you say to a fancy dinner out on the town?”

  Patty rubbed a spot clear of fog and regarded herself in the mirror, pushing up the skin at the corner of her eyes. He knew she worried about getting older, but he couldn’t see it. She was Patty, always beautiful, always young.

  “You hate going out for dinner.”

  She bent over and twisted a green towel around her hair, flipping it back up and tucking the ends in to form a turban. The towel made her eyes look even greener than usual. She pulled a pair of tweezers from the vanity drawer and plucked at her brows.

  “What would you say to someplace fancy?” Ed Carlaw had told him about the Blue Moon. He took his own wife there from time to time. Nice, Ed had said, with tablecloths and daisies in little vases next to a candle on every table.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Patty walked out of the bathroom and Tom followed.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rascal’s ears flicked forward, and then he disappeared downstairs.

  “The four of us at the Olive Garden isn’t exactly my idea of romance.” In the bedroom now, Patty opened a top drawer on the white painted pine bureau and pulled out clean underwear. She dropped her towel on the floor and lifted first one leg and then the other to step into her panties. She pointed her toes. There were goosebumps on the skin of her arms and legs, on her ribs and stomach. Tom wanted to pick her up and c
arry her to the bed and lay her down and put his body over hers until she was warm again. He wanted to run his tongue over the dark line that went from her belly button into her pubic hair. But there he was, standing in the doorway like an intruder and she was already unravelling the turban, pulling a sweatshirt over her head, covering those breasts, which were softer and riper than when he’d first met her, covering those rosy nipples that tasted like vanilla, pulling jeans over the curve of her hips, and if she noticed him looking at her, noticed the hunger in his eyes, she gave no sign.

  He walked over and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “No kids. The Blue Moon Restaurant. Just you and me out as late as we like,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Bobby won’t want to watch Ivy. He’s always out these days.” She stood passively.

  “That’s part of the surprise. Dorothy Carlisle’s offered to take Ivy for the night. Sleep over. Bobby’s old enough to be by himself for a while.”

  Patty turned in his arms and looked up at him. “I don’t know about that woman.”

  “I’ve known her all my life. She’s fine.”

  Patty grinned. “Might be just what we need.”

  “I agree,” Tom said, and kissed her.

  Two weeks later, Patty stood in front of the bathroom mirror, having just applied lipstick in a shade indicated on a little gold sticker on the end of the black cylinder as “Seduction.” She stuck her index finger in her mouth up to the knuckle and then pulled it out again.