by Jan Gleiter
“You think?”
“Uh-huh. Odd, isn’t it? Dan got a letter from him once, years ago. I wouldn’t even have known about it, but I found it in a desk drawer at his office in town while I was looking for some deposit slips. I asked him about it. ‘His name is Alan. He lives in Houston. He got in some trouble and I need to send him a thousand dollars,’ he said.”
She got up to put the pot on the stove and turned on a burner. “We didn’t have a thousand dollars to spare. Had to borrow it. I wouldn’t have minded—I mean, I’d find ten thousand dollars for my sister if she needed it—but he wouldn’t even tell me what the trouble was. We had a major fight. It’s the only big fight we ever had. He kept saying, ‘You don’t understand,’ and I kept saying, ‘That’s right, but I’d like to.’ I was furious.”
“Old ties,” said Meg. “They can get you.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s not his brother I’m concerned about now. It’s that secretive side of my otherwise perfect husband. If he’s upset about something, I want to know what.”
“Maybe he really is just working too hard.” Meg badly wanted to believe that. She didn’t like the tightness she heard in her friend’s voice.
Driving home, she passed Dan’s dark blue truck as he came around the curve. He smiled and raised a hand. She waved back.
“Talk to your wife,” she said grimly. She wished he could have heard her.
* * *
Sara’s voice mail promised a return call, and it came as Meg was finishing dinner.
“If you’d stay home once in a while, you wouldn’t have to pay for as many long-distance calls,” said Meg.
Sara, her closest friend in Chicago, was full of questions.
“The house? I love it,” said Meg in response. Her phone made the clicking noise that meant she had another call, which she ignored. “It’s kind of a wreck, but I love it. It’s got slanty cellar doors, can you believe it? And rosebushes. And a honeysuckle. And a huge pantry. And an attic with room to store things.” The signal came again. “And everything smells good.”
“Don’t you want to get that call?” asked Sara.
“No,” said Meg. “I’ve been waiting too long to talk to you.”
“I won’t go anywhere,” said Sara. “It’s probably the MacArthur Genius-Grant people.”
“Gosh, you’re right. I keep forgetting they’re due to call. Hang on.” She pressed the switch hook, but no one replied to her hello. She retrieved Sara.
“They gave up,” she said. “I’ll just have to keep struggling. But, like I said, this ain’t a bad place to struggle.”
“We’ve been hoping you’d hate it and come home again. Everybody misses you, and we’re pining.”
“I doubt that everybody’s pining,” said Meg dryly.
“Everybody who deserves you is pining.”
“So come see me. I have a nice new friend named Christine you’d really like, and the town is cute and clean, and the cafe has homemade pie, and I miss you too.”
They chatted for a few minutes until Sara’s date arrived. She promised to call back soon, and Meg was smiling as she eased into a bathtub full of hot water. She leaned back and sighed contentedly and then felt her heart leap in her chest when the dog began barking furiously right outside the window.
Her sudden fright, and embarrassment at the intensity of it, made her angry. “Be quiet!” she yelled. What was the dog’s problem? She wasn’t the type to burst into excited yaps when she detected an interesting scent. Unlike Harding, when she gave chase, she did so silently.
Whatever had occasioned this uproar was undoubtedly harmless, but the heat and depth of the water had lost their ability to soothe, and Meg scrubbed hastily, eager to finish and dress and feel less vulnerable.
She was seated in front of the computer, halfway through a vocabulary exercise, when she remembered the call-waiting tone. Her fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. She sat back and took a deep breath. No, that was ridiculous. The caller had been Christine, or Mike, or perhaps Jack calling to cancel breakfast, and whoever it was would call back.
But by the time she went to bed, no one had called back.
* * *
The alarm woke her at six forty-five. She felt groggy and confused. With birds singing cheerfully outside, she lay still, trying to remember why she’d set the alarm. She’d started to slide back into slumber when she remembered and sat up, smiling happily.
Pulling on a chenille robe, she went into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror. Her dark eyes looked puffy and surely, she thought, her hair could have more shape. Start some coffee, first. Coffee would make everything else that needed doing seem possible.
An hour later she was reasonably pleased. Clean, faded blue jeans and a rough, white, pullover shirt were the correct degree of presentable, she thought. Icy water had taken away the puffiness around her eyes, and shampoo and the blow-dryer had worked their magic. Her glossy dark hair curved away from her face. Daily labor on the fence had given her a faint sunburn that showed on her cheeks, her forearms, and under the V-neck of her shirt.
The dog barked in the front yard and, a moment later, a horn honked twice. Meg went out onto the porch. Jack’s red pickup sat in the driveway, the window on the passenger’s side rolled down.
“You want to save me from this ravening beast?” he asked, leaning toward the window from the driver’s seat. “I thought I’d ignore her and just stride on up to the door with my normal, testosterone-charged savoir faire, but she’s having none of it. ‘Nice doggie, nice doggie’ didn’t impress her.”
“Good grief,” said Meg. “I guess you’re the first visitor besides Christine since Canine Contentious decided she lives here. She keeps her distance from Christine, but she’s never challenged her. I’m sorry!”
She wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. She didn’t yet have a secure enough relationship with the dog to train her. She wasn’t sure if the pecking order had been clearly established. Still, the dog had submitted to being petted and, gradually, had come to request it. She stayed in Meg’s general vicinity whenever she was outdoors and had spent one whole evening in the house, listening with a polite pretense of interest while Meg read aloud the worksheets she thought particularly witty.
“Just a minute,” said Meg. “Stay there.”
She went into the bedroom and took the sash out of her bathrobe, then went down the porch steps to the flagstone walk that led to the driveway and approached the truck. The dog was standing stiff-legged in the open gate, her tail raised and bristled, her nose wrinkled. She was emitting a low growl. Meg squatted and looked her blandly in the face.
“Enough!” she said, firmly but with no anger. The dog’s eyes moved from the truck to Meg. She closed her mouth and stopped growling.
“Good girl,” said Meg, reaching out a hand and putting it on the dog’s head. She looped the sash around her neck, tied it, and stood up. “Heel,” she said, tugging lightly at the sash.
The dog, moving reluctantly, walked with Meg onto the grass.
“Go on in,” said Meg, and Jack swung down from the truck, lifted out a brown paper bag, and disappeared into the house. The dog watched him intently, growling softly, and, when Meg untied the sash, ran up onto the porch to scratch at the door.
“I feel like an idiot,” said Meg, having left the dog, discontented, outside and joined Jack in the kitchen. “It never even occurred to me that she’d hold her ground. She tends to avoid people, unless, like Mike, they grab at her.”
“Sounds like Mike,” he replied. “Grabby.”
Meg looked at him. He waved a hand. “Tell you later, when I know you better. Listen, no dog worth its salt lets a stranger walk right into a yard. You should be proud of her, not embarrassed. What’s her name?”
“It keeps changing,” she said. “Today ‘Scrappy’ seems good. You like dogs?”
He nodded. “All except the tiny little yippy ones. Even them, I don’t mind; I just don’t think they’re dogs, rea
lly. That one, however, is a dog, regardless of the peccaries among her ancestors.”
Meg laughed. “I’ll admit, she leaves something to be desired in the beauty department. And, come to think of it, the fragrance department … But she’s making progress in the ‘Don’t come near me or I’ll chew on your face’ department.”
“I hope she continues that progress,” said Jack. “I will woo her assiduously, but there have been times when my charm has taken years to work.”
“But eventually it does, right?”
He winked at her. “You bet.” He started taking things out of the paper bag—a large covered bowl of strawberries, a plate of ham sliced paper-thin, and a box that, when opened, revealed huge golden muffins.
“Yum!” said Meg. “Blueberry muffins! Where did those come from?”
“Long and arduous toil,” he replied. “First I milked the cow, churned some butter, gathered eggs—”
“Did you, at least, really make them?”
“No. They’re from the bakery. But they’re still warm, so pour some coffee, ma’am, and let’s eat.”
It would be hard, thought Meg—looking at him as he leaned back, coffee cup in hand, long legs stretched out under the table—to imagine a more pleasant way to start the day. He was wearing a blue work shirt with buttons in the shape of rabbits. In the pocket was an envelope.
“I like your shirt,” said Meg. “I didn’t know they made work shirts with bunnies on them.”
“The market for this style is small,” he said. “Apparently, many men think buttons in whimsical shapes give the wrong impression about their masculinity. I’ve just written to my niece, suggesting she set a new fashion trend in the third grade by spending her allowance in the notions section of the dime store and following my example.” He patted his pocket.
“You write letters?” asked Meg. “I don’t know anyone besides my parents who still writes letters. Don’t you have a phone?”
“Don’t you know what phone calls cost?” He smiled at her. “It’s amazing to me that people blow money that way. My niece and nephew don’t think a thing about it. My phone’ll ring and it’s Jeffrey, long-distance, with his latest uproarious joke. I love it, of course, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. I thought schools still taught kids how to write.”
“Not really,” said Meg.
When he arose to carry his plate to the sink, she held up a hand.
“Stop. You’ve done enough. I’ll clean up. You can drop by sometime and pick up your dishes. Or I’ll bring them over.”
“Great,” he said. “The guys tease me when I show up with dishpan hands. But before I get going, I noticed a dip in your dining room ceiling. You got a leak in the attic?”
Meg lifted her shoulders. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know.” She walked into the dining room and stood peering up at the ceiling. The dip was barely noticeable. “It looks all right to me.”
“Show me the attic stairs,” he said. “I’ll just go up and check it out.”
Meg found it odd that she enjoyed his good-tempered bossiness. She had bridled and, more often than not, flat-out balked when Jim had told her what to do. Jack, however, had no arrogance in his voice, just an easy confidence that they were of like minds.
The door at the foot of the stairs was ajar. She pulled it open all the way and climbed the creaking steps with him. He paced off a distance from one wall and pushed a foot against the floor.
“What?” she asked.
“I think you’re all right,” he said, looking up at the rafters. “But I’d like to check again sometime right after a rain.” He smiled at her and indicated his foot as he pressed it downward again. “This isn’t a thorough analysis.”
Meg pointed around the room at small metal boxes that stuck up through the planks that formed the floor. “What are those? Those things the pipes lead to?”
“Junction boxes,” he said. “For wiring. The wires are in the pipes.” He glanced at her. “You know, junctions. Where things come together.”
“The wires are in the pipes? Doesn’t wiring go through conduit?”
He laughed at her. “Get used to living in an old house, babe,” he said. “Conduit hadn’t been invented when this work was done.” He looked critically around the room. “I’m not sure if the cotton gin had been. You know, the boxes should be covered, especially in a house this old. Want me to get an electrician to come by?”
Meg shook her head. “Not right now,” she said, trying to think about her dwindling checking account, trying not to think about his casual and probably meaningless familiarity. “Soon, though, if it’s important.”
He looked around again. “It is. Just don’t store stacks of magazines up here in the meantime.”
“Heck, no,” said Meg. “What would I use for an end table?”
“Right,” he said. “Let’s go feed leftover ham to The Beast.”
Meg had to admire him. Not many people would have been willing to make an effort to become friends with such an unappealing animal. She had, of course, but the dog hadn’t been aggressive to her. Jack squatted and held out a hand. The dog regarded him suspiciously.
“Don’t glare at her,” said Meg.
“That’s not a glare. That’s me not showing fear.”
“Oh,” said Meg. “Well, shift your gaze.”
“I think I see a friendship blooming,” she said as Jack stood, wiping his hand on his hip. “You are a brave soul.”
“Who has to get crackin’,” he said. “I promised to get the Delaneys’ living room sanded by noon. God willing and the creek don’t rise, I will. But barely.”
He opened the passenger’s door of his pickup and lifted out a beautifully made wren house. “Housewarming,” he said. “It just needs a post in a shady spot.”
“It’s wonderful!” said Meg. “Deutsch colonial, is it? But do wrens actually care if their homes are sanded and stained?”
“Maybe not yet. But good taste is largely a matter of exposure to beautiful things. Next year, they’ll be back, educated by their experience and unwilling to live in anything but the best.” He pitched his deep voice high. “‘No, Seymour, I won’t even consider this … this slum after that lovely place we had last year! You just keep flying, mister!’”
Meg was still grinning as he maneuvered the truck around in the driveway and waved good-bye. When she turned to go into the house, she nearly tripped over the dog and realized for the first time that the animal hadn’t left her side.
“Now what are you so clingy for all of a sudden?” she asked.
Nine
Jane dipped a brush into white paint, smoothed it on the rim of the can, and stroked it against the fence.
“Fresh paint looks so clean,” she said.
“It sure does,” said Meg. “And you’re doing that very nicely, but I’m worried about your sweater.”
“I won’t make a mess.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Meg. “It’s virtually impossible to paint anything, even a birdhouse, without making some sort of mess. You’ve already got paint on your hair.”
“I do?”
“Yup. So let me get you an old sweatshirt. That’s too nice a sweater to ruin.”
When Meg came back out with a sweatshirt, Jane stood up and shrugged carefully out of her cardigan. “It’s my favorite sweater. I wear it all the time.”
Meg could see why. It was hand-knit, made of a thick yarn in periwinkle blue. The color was good with the child’s burnished hair. “It’s beautiful. Did your mom make it?”
“No. She sews things, but she can’t knit or crochet. Mrs. Ehrlich made it for me.” Jane pulled the sweatshirt on and, when her head had emerged, continued as she worked her arms into the sleeves. “She was teaching me to crochet. She’d already taught me to embroider. I can do all kinds of embroidery stitches. I embroidered a toaster cover for her that looked like a little house with a door and windows and flower boxes on the windowsills.”
She picked up h
er brush and started working again, with Meg painting alongside. “You miss her, don’t you,” said Meg.
Jane sighed. “A lot.”
They worked for a while in silence. Then Jane spoke quietly. “Did you ever notice that if somebody old dies, people just say, ‘Oh, dear, that’s too bad.’ If somebody young dies, they say, ‘No! How awful! What did she die of?’”
“But that’s just because it’s more shocking when a young person dies, don’t you think?” asked Meg.
“I think it’s shocking when anybody dies who shouldn’t have,” said Jane. She turned an accusing eye on Meg. “Did you ever ask what she died of?”
Meg was taken aback. “No, I don’t think I did,” she said. “I guess I just assumed it was … you know, because her heart stopped.”
“Well, everybody’s heart stops when they die,” said Jane. “That’s not very specific.”
“No,” said Meg. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it carefully. What did she die of?”
Jane moved down several pickets, taking her paint can with her. “She had a jumpy heart. She said her medicine made it all right. So she must not have taken her medicine, and that’s what she died of. I feel mad about it all the time, but I shouldn’t have been mad at you. You didn’t even know her.”
“It takes a while after someone dies to stop being mad about it,” said Meg. “Sometimes it takes a long time.”
“But I’m not just mad she died,” said Jane. “I’m mad because nobody was watching out to make sure it didn’t happen. All she had to do was take her medicine, and she didn’t. And so she died, and now one of the people who should have been more careful of her is living in her house and another one is using her best silver and lots of them have her stocks. It isn’t fair.”