We go home a few hours later. Ma and Granny head to the kitchen. I say goodnight, change into my pajamas, and hang my dress. Then I hurry to take out a carefully wrapped parcel from my purse, and I place the piece of wedding cake under my pillow. I want to dream of a man who will make my face light up like Fran’s does whenever Frank walks into a room.
I fall asleep, but if I saw his face, I don’t remember it.
Chapter 40
Ring, ring, ring! I glance at my clock. Who would call at six thirty in the morning, especially the day after Fran’s wedding? I try to go back to sleep, but Ma and Granny scuttle downstairs to make tea. Cupboards bang, water runs, and whispers ramble. My feet pound the stairs as I make my way to the kitchen. I prime complaints, but when I see Ma and Granny’s faces, they fall to the ground. “What happened?”
“One daughter finds a husband as the other loses one,” Granny says as she lowers herself into the kitchen chair.
The shrill whistle of the teapot sounds.
Granny wiped tears of happiness only hours ago. She wipes tears again, but these tears redden her eyes and don’t lend beauty to her face. “Burt died last night.”
Ma clucks. “Weddings, births, and deaths always travel hand-in-hand.”
“What’s Auntie Edna going to do?”
Granny shrugs her shoulders. “Burt was a good man, but he wasn’t a money maker. They were happy, but they lived hand-to-mouth.”
Edna phones. Granny calls her back. Edna phones again. Ma gives Edna a call. It’s decided. Auntie Edna will move in with us.
Widowhood leaves Edna penniless. When she marches into our home with two children in tow, you’d never suspect it.
Aunt Edna is cross, stubborn, and a natural-born leader. Her words bite, and her attitude bristles with impatience and intolerance, but she loves her family. She’ll annihilate anyone who tries to hurt them. Word spreads. We have a pit bull on the premises.
Soliciting stops after an unfortunate incident involving a high-powered-vacuum-cleaner salesperson and my aunt. “Pretend it didn’t happen,” Ma says.
Rumours circulate, the butcher’s pounds become larger, and I no longer spend part of my Saturday mornings picking up gum wrappers and whatnot off the front lawn.
William Barnett is the only person my aunt can’t bully. For the last four years, every morning without fail, Mr. Barnett and his dog have circled the block at exactly ten fifteen. He’s in front of our home at approximately ten eighteen. His dog Daisy dumps the largest pile of feces on our picket fence at ten nineteen. If you can get over your initial disgust, it’s really quite an amazing feat.
The Yorkshire terrier weighs no more than five pounds, yet she manages to eliminate three pounds of waste a day. She doesn’t actually poop on our lawn. She manages to deposit her load on the bottom slat of our fence. It makes cleanup tricky. It drives my mother and grandmother crazy.
They rush to the window at ten eighteen. Fingers tap the pane repeatedly. William Barnett peers off in the distance, never noticing his dog squat, never hearing the taps.
Edna witnesses the dirty deed only once when she decides the window just won’t do. “He pretends not to see or hear us,” she says. “We must sit on the porch.”
“It’s too embarrassing,” Ma moans.
“He’s the one who should be embarrassed,” Edna yelps.
Granny turns away. “I’m not doing it.”
The next day finds Edna sitting on the porch at twelve minutes after ten. Sure enough, at ten eighteen, Mr. Barnett and Daisy resume position. My aunt shouts, chastises, screams, and curses, but both Daisy and Mr. Barnett play deaf and dumb. Red-faced and quivering, my aunt hurries into the house and runs to find my mother. “Where do they live?” she screeches.
Ma and Granny exchange anxious looks. “Forty-one Elm Street,” Granny says with a smile. “It’s a little bungalow with green shutters and a rock garden in front.”
Ma makes a move to stop Edna, but Granny intercepts her. “He deserves it.”
My aunt runs to the kitchen and grabs a plastic bag. In her rage, she gathers the pile without dropping a speck. She marches down the street with her prize.
The front door slams moments later. “I want everyone to come to the kitchen,” Edna orders.
Smugly, she brags, “There won’t be any more poop cooking on our fence.”
“What did you do?” Ma asks.
“I did what I had to.” A smile lights my aunt’s face. “He has a fountain in the middle of his front lawn. Water trickles from the mouth of a frog and sounds like a bubbling brook. Let’s just say the frog has new jewels adorning his crown.”
Ma’s face knots. “That was a wicked thing to do.” Her laughter steals the sincerity from her words.
“Let’s celebrate with a pitcher of iced tea!” Granny whoops.
We make our way to the porch. Ma carries the pitcher. Granny clutches the tray of glasses, and Edna carries victory.
I sit on the step. My gaze falls on the fence. “Ma, it’s back.”
Ma stops pouring mid-stream. “What’s back?”
“It’s back, Ma, and it’s dripping.”
Edna’s chin juts out. Not believing her eyes, she goes over to the picket fence. The poop has been re-gifted once again.
“For the love of God,” she whispers. “It’s the same pile.” Her eyes take on a hardened glint. Her back stiffens. “I’ll get that rotten bugger.” She runs to the kitchen to fetch a plastic bag. She races down the street and returns, huffing and puffing, without the bag.
A self-satisfied smile shortens her long face.
We go inside to eat lunch. Edna eats very little. Once the meal is over, I grab my roller skates. I sit on the bottom step to fasten them onto my shoes. Brown goo mars our white fence. “Ma, there’s something gross on the fence!” I yell.
Ma, Granny, and Edna rush outside. Sure enough, the pile is back. Dunking it into the fountain twice turns it into a watery mess.
My aunt’s lips move, but no sound comes out.
Ma’s shoes click on the wooden steps. “Where are you going?” Edna barks.
“I’m turning on the water. I’m going to hose it.”
Edna runs down the steps. “You’re not.”
Ma places her hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done your best, but they won. It’s over. It’s liquidized.”
The goo seeps into the grass. Edna’s shoulders slump. Princess barks, breaking the silence. Fran waves and smiles, unaware that William Barnett beat Edna.
She gives the goo a departing look as she makes her way to her sister’s house. The hose gulps, sputters, and decimates her failure.
Within minutes, laughter leaps over Fran’s back fence.
“I’m surprised,” Ma says. “Edna doesn’t let go of her moods easily.”
Fran’s gate swings open. Granny leans forward in her chair. “Where’s she going?”
“She’s carrying a bag,” Ma says.
“And she’s smiling.”
Ma and Granny share a confused look. Suddenly, Granny laughs. “Princess came to the rescue once again.”
“What do you mean?”
“She gave my girl much-needed ammunition. The war isn’t over.”
Edna arrives home twenty minutes later. She throws herself on the couch. Her eyes barely close when a sharp bang on the door opens them.
Ma walks to the screen door but doesn’t unlatch it. It’s Mr. Barnett. “Yes, may I help you?” she asks.
“I want to see that big, tall blonde,” he sputters.
Edna pushes Ma out of her way and meets her foe face to face. She flicks the latch and swings the door open. Tall and proud, her chin jutting, her glare doesn’t waver.
“You!” Barnett sputters as he points at my aunt. “You’re despicable.”
“No, sir,” my aunt corrects. “You’re the wicked one. And stupid to boot.” Her finger pokes his chest. “Where do you get the audacity to let your little dog do her business on our premises for years
and then complain when you get what you deserve?”
“It’s only a little dog,” Mr. Barnett squeaks.
“But a big man is at the end of the little dog’s leash, and he’s a fool to think the women of this house should have to clean his dog’s mess.” Edna’s finger points like a dagger. “If you don’t start cleaning up after your dog, I’ll comb the area and find every piece of dog poop in existence, and then I’ll go to your house. Today I showed restraint. I won’t tomorrow.”
Barnett’s face reddens, his hands tremble, and his feet shift back and forth. “I never!” he sputters.
Edna places her face inches from his. “No, you haven’t,” she says, “but you better well start. I’ll be watching you.” Shoulders hunched, she stares into his eyes until he looks down.
Mr. Barnett doesn’t change his route. Every day at ten eighteen, he passes our house. Our white picket fence remains white. Ma says it wasn’t worth it. She doesn’t like the way William Barnett looks at my aunt from that day forward. My aunt says it was worth it. She calls Ma a sissy. Ma calls her Poopy Hands.
“You wait,” Ma predicts. “That man isn’t finished with you yet.”
Edna procures a cashier job at our local grocery store. She and my two cousins move around the corner on Willow Street two months later. Within the year, Edna is managing the store.
Chapter 41
There’s a scheduled stop in Athens, which is similar to Farley Falls in terms of size and population. I get off the train to stretch my legs. I walk with no destination in mind. I only have to saunter a few blocks to observe that the large homes with gables and wrap-around porches are in a state of disrepair. Most are in dire need of a paint job. Sagging porches and crumbling bricks natter of better days.
A woman roots through a garbage can. Unfortunately, such sights are becoming common. When I was a child, words like street person and bag lady didn’t exist. People lived on the streets, and some women carried all their possessions in bags, but their numbers were too small to see them as a group. People also went out of their way not to see them at all.
I reach for my purse to give the woman money. It’s not dangling from my shoulder. I must have forgotten it on the train. I walk past the woman. Offering her money would have been awkward, anyway, since she pretends not to see me.
No one sees beyond the dearth and dirt when old women are dressed in rags. I think of the old woman who once roamed our streets pushing a grocery cart filled with treasures. Her idea of riches had differed from most. Bottles and tin cans had filled her cart. Articles of clothing had peeked out, adding splatters of colour.
I suspect they were sweaters forgotten at a park or scarves that had slipped to the ground unnoticed. She hadn’t hurt anyone, so people turned a blind eye, smug in their kindness. Passing years stole her lucidity, but her passivity wrapped her in an invisible shawl.
Granny became the chief gardener when she moved in with us. Ma found it too difficult to work the soil that Daddy forever toiled.
Ma never told Granny what to do, but Granny never dug up a single plant my father planted. She just weeded and fertilized. Years pass, and Granny maintains the garden without complaint. One day, she trudges into the house, looking forlorn.
“What’s wrong?” Ma asks.
Granny clucks her tongue. “The grass is spent. We have to do something.”
“Do you want me to pick up a bag of seeds?”
“It’s too far gone. I was thinking of expanding the garden.” She quickly adds, “I won’t touch Paddy’s roses.”
“If you think that’s best. But won’t it be a lot of work?”
“It’s not work if you enjoy it. Besides, Frank knows a guy who has a dump truck. He said he’d drop a load of soil for me.”
Ma is leaving for work. “Do you know where I put my purse?”
“By the door.”
“Thanks. The garden is yours. Do whatever you want with it, but don’t overwork yourself.”
“I won’t.”
Within the hour, beeps sound, a dump truck backs up, and pistons hum as the large bed tilts skywards. Black earth plunges to the ground, and the hinged back bangs so loudly, I can feel the vibration in my teeth. A shovel is in my hand before the truck turns the corner. “Fill the wheelbarrow,” Granny orders as she begins to dig.
By the end of the day, my hands cramp and I fear I’ll never be white again. But the six-foot pile is flat, and Granny is smiling. “We’ll plant tomorrow,” she says as she throws herself on the swing.
I can barely walk into the house. My joints crackle and pop when I lower myself into a hot bath.
Since we don’t have a car, Fran brings her mother to the garden center. She stumbles from the car two hours later, and the three of us plop a plethora of plants into the patch of dirt.
“I’m going to lay down for a bit,” Fran moans.
Granny attacks the front lawn with relish. Her garden quickly takes form. Granny’s methods differ from my father’s habits. He appreciated exotic flowers and gave each of them plenty of room to grow. Granny prefers cottage gardens bursting with colour and teeming with flowers. It doesn’t take long for her to have it.
My admiration for my grandmother runs deep. She’s the most open-minded person I’ve ever met. When young people began living together without the benefit of marriage, she interrupted the ravings and asked, “Who are they hurting? Besides, no one buys shoes without trying them on. It should be the same when you’re shopping for a man.”
Granny can talk about religion, politics, or any hot subject and focus on the relevancy, effortlessly discarding the worthlessness surrounding it.
Having praised her, I now feel I can mention a small negative. My grandmother has the gaudiest taste imaginable. Show her a chunk of solid gold and some cheap bauble, and she’ll reach for the bauble every time.
Her front garden gives concrete form to her taste. Dahlias, zinnias, and snapdragons blind in the brightest colour combinations possible. Tall plants, short plants, bushy or thin—they mix without prejudice. Her oasis—a dizzying bed of colour and textures—is not complete until she adds her finishing touch. Granny has the honor of owning the largest assortment of plastic dwarves and animals in the northern hemisphere. They were tucked in the backyard, but now that the front lawn is a garden, she relocates them.
Our front lawn houses every one of them, regardless of age, colour, or health. One-eyed gnomes and three-legged bunnies watch people pass as only plastic eyes can.
Ma and I heap praise along with the other manure.
Chapter 42
After Granny’s handiwork, people often stop and stare at our house. Granny nudges me with her pointy elbow whenever she sees them. “Look, Marnie. They’re stunned to see such a fine-looking garden.”
“That’s true, Granny,” I say as if I agree. I don’t. They’re astonished, but in a bad way. Granny construes their looks of horror as adoration. It’s forgivable, since mouths fall open in both instances.
Only one person is delighted by my grandmother’s labours—the bag lady, or, as we said then, the old woman carrying all those bags in a cart. She gapes at the garden in utter rapture. She’s particularly fond of Granny’s little red hen and her five baby chicks. Her mutterings often carry to the porch. The assurance her voice once held when she told Violet so many truths is gone.
“I’m going to get me a big pot, yes siree. And when I do, I’ll come and get ya. You can count on that.” Her lips usually smack as she scuffles away.
Granny is a hawk when it comes to her garden. Always on the lookout for squirrels, she perches in her bedroom window. Her eyes narrow as she looks out. “Who are you looking at?” I ask.
“The old lady.”
“Is she in your garden?”
Granny nods as the gate squeaks and the old woman toddles to the sidewalk. “Sad, isn’t it?” she remarks as she turns away.
I don’t understand how such vulnerability is left to fend for itself. “Why doesn’t her famil
y watch over her?”
Granny shrugs her shoulders. “Sometimes, families distance themselves from people like her.”
“Why?”
“You’re only allowed to be so strange, Marnie. My guess is that old woman crossed the line a long time ago.”
“Does she know she crossed the line?”
“Probably not.”
“Does she even know there’s a line?”
“I wouldn’t imagine she does.”
The bitterness in me smoulders. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not,” Granny agrees.
“Then why does it happen?”
“A lot of things that aren’t fair happen.”
“I don’t think they should.”
“Neither do I, but some people aren’t troubled by injustice.”
“She’s often in your garden.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t let anyone in there.”
“She doesn’t count.”
“Why?”
“I’d say that old woman gets as much pleasure from my flowers as I do. It would be a sin to take that tiny bit of enjoyment away from her, since she has so little in her life.”
Granny’s words strike a chord. You have to adjust lines for unique people.
A few days later, I’m certain my grandmother’s attitude will change. A theft occurs. We now have a red hen and four chicks. Granny’s charity will surely end with the old woman’s stealing.
She notices the chick’s disappearance with a flare of her nostrils. “That old woman must have taken her,” I whisper in her ear.
She peers at the hole, the stake left. “I’m sure she did.”
My arms cross my chest. I look in the distance. “Bet you’re not going to let her into your garden anymore.”
Granny’s voice becomes gruff. “Don’t ever stop her, Marnie.”
“But she stole a chick. She plans to cook it. Once she gets a big pot, she’ll be back for the rest.”
Granny shrugs her thin shoulders.
“That’s all you’re going to say about it?”
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