I always wondered why Marjorie hated me. I have the answer. I was Marjorie’s pretend Constance, a vessel for her leashed anger. She could hate me and snatch things from me, and I would reciprocate. The thought rings of truth. I solved one puzzle.
How many things in life are clear when you step away from them?
After the funeral, Cynthia calls Mr. Dodds, the local realtor. She instructs him to put her mother’s house on the market.
Ma sees the sign. “I knew she wouldn’t keep it,” she says to Granny. I’m about to join them, but something stops me. I decide to remain sitting beside the open window.
“Can’t blame her, Ellie. Her memories of Farley aren’t good.”
“No, but I can’t believe she didn’t even keep a memento. She rushed off, taking only what she came with.”
“Why would she want reminders? Gertrude treated her with indifference.” Granny pounds the chair’s arm. “That’s the cruelest thing you can do to a child. The world is big and scary. It bursts with people. A mother’s love makes it feel smaller and safer.”
“That’s true. We all need a corner in the world where we matter.”
“Cynthia was lucky to have yours and Paddy’s love. I don’t blame her for not wanting anything from that house.”
“I think Gertrude blamed her for being illegitimate.”
“Easier than blaming herself, I guess.”
“It wasn’t right.”
“A lot of things aren’t.”
“I only saw her leave because I heard the taxi pull up.”
“She didn’t stop over?”
“No, she left the house as if she was marching in a band. Shoulders straight, eyes looking ahead, she never looked back.”
“Cynthia thinks of you as her mother, Ellie.”
“Her actions make me wonder. How could she walk away without a goodbye?”
“You’re thinking about it all wrong. Ask yourself this: How can she say goodbye to love twice?”
Ma remains quiet.
Granny asks, “So what’s going to happen to Gertrude’s things?”
“She told Mr. Dodds to sell it furnished or pack all of her mother’s belongings and give them to charity.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Mr. Dodds is a closet poet. He appreciates irony. He’s donating everything to Saint Peter’s Church. The women will have the job of distributing Mrs. Plante’s belongings to the poor.”
Granny whistles. “When she was alive, Mrs. Plante would spit in a poor person’s eye before she would give them a nickel. Her belated generosity would kill her if she weren’t already dead.”
Chapter 21
Granny makes rice crispy squares before we go to bed. I hurry from the living room before the blob plops into the glass casserole dish.
“Forget it,” she says as she evens the mixture out. “You’ll have nightmares if you eat one.” She chews at the clinging goodness hanging from her fingers.
I would’ve taken my chances with the nightmares, but she shoos me out of the room.
I dream of those squares all night.
As soon as I wake up, I dress, make my bed, and hurry to the kitchen.
The knife sinks into the marshmallow gooeyness, and I cut a large hunk. I slink onto the porch, trying to convince myself that the cereal makes the treat a wholesome breakfast.
As I sit down, Elizabeth Becker’s car pulls into the Plante driveway with a squeal. She marches up the porch steps and swipes Mrs. Plante’s Adirondack chair repeatedly with a cotton handkerchief before she arranges her silk dress and sits down.
Barely five minutes pass before Violet Turner’s green Impala circles the corner. Betsy’s head snaps to look in the opposite direction as soon as she sees her. She fails to notice Alice Barnes’s blue Seville trailing close behind. Millie Lawrence, who is sitting beside Alice, calls out, “Betsy, we’re here!”
Betsy takes to the stairs in a burst of click-clops as her heels strike the wooden stairs to punctuate her pleasure in seeing her friends.
She walks past Violet’s car without so much as a nod, sticks her head into Alice’s window, and says, “I’m so happy you two have arrived.” She pats her flawlessly coiffed hair. “There’s a lot of work ahead of us, and I’m anxious to begin.”
Millie pulls a box from the back seat. “It won’t take us long. The three of us are go-getters.”
Alice grabs a roll of garbage bags. “The Lord’s work is never a chore,” she remarks as she gazes heavenwards.
Betsy gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I agree. Good deeds are never a chore. It does the heart and spirit good to help the less fortunate. I spoke out of turn.”
Violet, waiting by Mrs. Plante’s door, huffs, “Is someone going to let me in, or should I break a window?”
The three women savor a nasty glance. Alice digs in her purse for a long time before she smiles sweetly and says, “Oh dear, the key was in my pocket. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
The four women enter the house, and I go inside to wash my sticky fingers.
Granny doesn’t say anything about the missing square, but a few hours later, she hands me a knife. “There’s an awful lot of dandelions on the lawn.”
“Do you want me to stab them to death?”
“Don’t be smart. You have to pop them. Make sure you get the taproot. Grab a bucket to put them in,” she adds as I head out.
Granny made the job sound easy—pop, pop, pop. It isn’t like that at all. The roots are deep and don’t let go without a fight.
As I’m hacking away at a particularly pugnacious weed, Millie, Alice, and Betsy throw themselves onto the Adirondacks. Chairs scrape the porch as they bunch into a solid knot. Whispers waft, and I move a wee bit closer.
Violet steps onto the porch, and the chatter abruptly ceases. She barely sits on a step before Alice looks at her watch and says, “It’s time to get back to work.”
Betsy is about to get up when she spots an old woman dressed in rags. Her nose crinkles, and her mouth turns in revulsion. She leans in to Millie, who wears an identical look. Both wave the air under their noses as if the old woman’s stench is creeping up the stairs to sit beside them.
The old woman has lived in Farley Falls as long as anyone can remember. No one remembers her name. She’s the old woman, nothing more.
Violet suddenly jumps up from the step. “I’ve got an idea. She’s the same size as Gertrude was. I’m going to ask her if she wants her clothes.”
“You will do no such thing,” Alice says with the confidence of someone whose orders are obeyed. “Those articles are to help the poor. We’re selling them at the thrift shop.”
Violet trots down the stairs and trails the old woman. “Excuse me. Could you wait a second? I’d like to talk to you.”
The old woman’s shoulders stiffen. She stops and turns around.
Violet’s words come out in a rush. “Mrs. Plante died, and we were wondering if you would like to have her clothing. We only ask because she was the same size as you, and most women aren’t fortunate enough to be so small.”
The old woman looks up at her but says nothing. “She has some very nice things,” Violet says. “If I wore a smaller size, I’d probably take a few pieces. It seems a shame to waste such good clothing. Some of it’s practically brand new.”
“I don’t believe in waste.”
“I don’t, either,” Violet says. “We really would love to find a home for all of Gertrude’s things. Everything is bagged. We can load it up in my car and bring it to your place straight away. If you’d like, that is.”
The old woman looks pensive. “I’d appreciate it, but I’ll only accept your help. I don’t want nothing from those other women,” she says with a sweep of her hand.
Violet hurries to the porch and turns to Alice, Betsy, and Millie. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” She goes into the house and returns with two bulging garbage bags. I move over to get the dandelions closer to the sidewalk.<
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Once Violet tosses the bags into her trunk, she turns to the old woman. “Get in.”
“I can walk.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you.”
The old woman hesitates but smiles when Violet opens the passenger door for her.
As Violet starts the car, she asks, “Why didn’t you want my friends’ help?”
“Those women,” the old lady snorts. “The answer is clear. I don’t like them. Listen, can you hear their whispers?”
Violet cocks her head, “I don’t hear a thing.”
“Listen with your heart, not your ears. If the words haven’t left their mouths, they soon will. They’ll soon be saying you’re too big for your britches. When they tire gossiping about you, they’ll congratulate themselves for showing me kindness. Once that’s done with, the viciousness will begin.” The old woman holds her head high. “They think they’re better than me. They’re not.”
“I don’t think…”
The old woman interrupts her before she can finish. “You know I’m right, so please don’t argue.”
Violet pulls away from the curb without saying a word. The car barely turns the corner when Betsy’s shrill voice screeches, “Who does she think she is? This is a committee. One person doesn’t have the right to do as they please.”
“She’s so uncouth, you can’t expect any better,” Alice says as she strokes the long hair growing from the mole on her pointy chin.
Millie’s nose flares, making her horse face look even more horsey. “It pains me to say this, but…” She fills the pause with a pained look. “There’s no choice in the matter. We must get rid of her. She doesn’t fit in.”
Betsy’s double chin quivers in excitement over the suggestion. “I agree. It will hurt her feelings, but we must do what’s best for the church. Charitable work doesn’t need that kind.”
“Certainly not,” Millie sniffs.
“The old woman better be grateful for our kindness,” Alice warbles. “Gertrude’s clothes would have paid for our Christmas party.”
“And then some,” Betsy adds. “Gertrude had some high-end silk blouses.”
“That old woman will probably wear them as she rifles through garbage cans. What was Violet thinking?” Alice asks.
“Violet doesn’t think,” Millie says.
Alice’s face relaxes into benevolence. “I’m sure few show the old lady the kindness we did.”
“Can’t blame them,” Betsy says as she holds her nose.
Alice’s angular face sharpens. “I understand poverty, but it’s not an excuse for poor hygiene.”
Millie snorts. “She’s a mangy old dog.”
Haughtiness cloaks Betsy’s face. “A dog I wouldn’t allow to sit in my car.”
“Lord knows what sort of cooties she carries,” Millie says.
“I’m sure she carries every type, but it’s the smell that would worry me,” Betsy decrees.
Alice’s laugh rings out razor sharp and malicious. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she smelled up Violet’s upholstery for good. By the looks of her, she mustn’t have had a bath in a year.”
“It’s at least two years,” Millie says gaily. “Mind you, whatever happens, it serves Violet right. I don’t know who she thinks she is. Imagine, taking control like that.”
“If there’s a leader of our group, it’s you,” Betsy says as she smiles at Alice.
“Yes,” Millie agrees. “It’s within your rights to say something. Violet deserves chastisement.”
“I’m not that kind,” Alice says, looking saintly.
“You’re too compassionate,” Betsy says. “But sometimes, we must be cruel to be kind.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Alice’s hands flutter. “It will be unpleasant, but it’s my duty to talk to her.”
Among kisses and hugs, they say goodbye and hop into their cars.
I’m so angry with them that I do manage to pop the rest of the dandelions. Knees sore and dirty, I head back into the house, glad to be free of the noxious weeds.
Chapter 22
Fran’s auburn hair puffs over her forehead in an attempt to cover an egg-sized lump. “I stepped on a rake,” she titters when Granny’s eyes sweep the injury.
Ma hands her a cup of coffee and sits down without saying a word. When Fran leaves, Ma says, “The only person she’s fooling is herself.” She jumps up, grabs a cloth, and attacks the already gleaming counters. “I would prefer if she said nothing rather than lie to us.”
Granny clucks. “People who are kind to others often don’t show the same kindness to themselves. Somehow, my poor Frannie landed in that category.”
July 18 arrives, and nothing changes. Herb, alive and well, still beats my aunt. We fear it will never end—or worse, end badly. Granny wakes up and prays from seven o’clock until seven thirty. She stumbles into the kitchen on puffy, discoloured knees, collapses into her chair, and groans. I fear she’s setting herself up for another disappointment. Mind you, after the chicken fiasco, all that praying is probably a good thing.
We talk for a while, do a few chores, and then make our way outside. The day is especially warm, and the floribunda roses burst in the full sun, spilling their spicy scent. My aunt’s auburn hair glistens like copper as she walks down the street. Princess, her toy poodle, is in her arms. The dog’s white coat makes my aunt’s freshly blackened arms look all the more dark and ugly.
The latest beating is a corker. My mother’s eyes widen in shock and then narrow in rage as her eyes travel across the black finger marks encircling my aunt’s neck. The old wooden rocker hits the wall when she gets off it. “Lemonade?” she asks when my aunt reaches the stairs.
“Yes, please.”
When Ma returns, we sit on the porch talking but not really saying anything.
Granny goes into the house. I know she’s talking to Saint Jude. The situation is desperate, and I hope St. Jude takes notice of it. How can the Forgotten Saint ignore Granny? Usually, when something bad happens to you, you tend to be more sensitive when you see it happen to someone else.
Just as we’re about to go inside, Herb marches down the street. He likes to keep Fran chained to the house and periodically comes home at lunchtime to check on her. When he doesn’t find her, he always knows where to look. Herb’s near-bald head shines red. His few strands of black hair stand on end, warning us that he’s in an especially foul mood.
Without bothering to acknowledge us, he glares at Auntie Fran. “I went home after working like a dog all morning and expected a nice, hot lunch, and what did I find?” Before my aunt can say a word, his hand smacks the railing. “An empty house, that’s what.”
“If you would have called, you would have opened the door to a hot lunch.”
“I don’t have to report to you.”
“You usually don’t come home at lunch time.”
“Even if I don’t, you should be home cleaning the house instead of sitting on your fat ass yapping the day away.”
He speaks as if they live in a pigsty, which isn’t even close to the truth. My aunt is an exceptional housekeeper. If anything, her house is too clean. She irons underwear and washes her cupboards monthly. Ma says it’s a way of controlling a life that’s out of control. I think the incessant cleaning proves she doesn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, and having baskets of ironing and buckets of suds keeps her from thinking too much.
My knee brushes against my aunt’s leg. A little voice in my head screeches, “Tell him he has no right to order you about. Shove him off the porch. Tell him to go to hell.”
Quiet, Fran does nothing. Actually, worse than nothing. She lowers her head and looks like a schoolgirl caught smoking in the girl’s bathroom. His glower deepens.
Ma’s mouth opens, but Granny grabs her wrist and it closes.
Herb looks up at Fran. His thin lips curl. “Hurry up, I want my lunch.”
Fran gulps the remainder of her lemonade. She favors her left leg as she gets off the chair.
Herb snorts, “I haven’t got all day.”
She bends to retrieve Princess, but he bounds up the steps and snatches the dog. Her eyes become big and round. “Hurry, woman,” he orders as he stomps down the steps. Although he’s a small man, his steps rumble. He reaches the bottom and looks up at my aunt. “Problem with you is that you’re too fat. Too bad you’re not tiny and feminine like Ellie.” He often compliments my mother’s small body or tiny features, knowing it’s another way to hurt my aunt. No one comments on his behavior, so he wears his cruel ways without shame.
Fran tries to hurry, but her movements are stiff and awkward. Herb calls her name in a soft voice that holds no gentleness. Instead, it holds scorn. Her eyes rise to meet his. His face becomes flinty. “Take your dog,” he says with a smile as he pitches Princess. Her body smacks the brick pillar that holds up our porch with a powerful wallop. “Oops,” he snorts when the dog shrieks in pain.
He pays no mind to the dog. His bony arm reaches for his wife. “Come on, I’m hungry. I want my lunch.” Fran seizes the extended hand and holds on to it.
He pulls from her grip. “What are you trying to do, woman, break something?” He shakes his hand and extends his fingers. “There’s something wrong with you,” he growls as his other hand makes tight circles along the side of his head.
His gaze seeks concurrence. Does he truly believe we’ll side with him? It just goes to show that when you do nothing, you’re doing something.
Fran’s eyes never leave her cherished pet. Princess’s big, round eyes fill with confusion. She tries to reach her master, but her back legs drag along the ground and weigh her down. The toy poodle tries to stand, whines pitifully, and collapses into a small bundle. Fran’s body stiffens. Herb yaps about his hand until his complaints become childish whines. She looks past him.
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