A House by the Side of the Road

by Jan Gleiter

  * * *

  When the phone rang, Meg lay The Brandons upside down on the bed next to her so she wouldn’t lose her place and answered. It better be Sara, she thought. If I have to leave Pomfret Madrigal to talk to somebody, it better be Sara.

  No one replied to her hello. She waited a second and tried again. “Hello?”

  Silence. And then there was a click and the line went dead.

  “Same to you,” said Meg and picked up her book. She had read a paragraph without understanding a word of it before she realized how disconcerted she was.

  “Don’t be a dip,” she said out loud. Why should she get jittery over a simple disconnection? Not everyone who dialed a wrong number was polite enough to apologize.

  Lavinia was waiting, with her endearing absentmindedness and entertaining life. Christine had been right about Angela Thirkell novels, at least in this case. But Meg could not make her way back into the diverting fictional world she had been occupying before the phone rang, and Mrs. Brandon had to wait for half an hour while Meg walked through the house and checked the doors and windows and ate a bowl of cereal and managed, finally, to shake off the feeling that someone had been trying to find out if she was home.

  Twelve

  Between the driveway and the kitchen window, Meg had put a bird feeder, driving the post solidly into the ground. It was more for her pleasure than, at this time of year, the birds’ survival. The birdhouse from Jack stood farther away. It had gone up too late, it seemed, to be used this spring. Meg grinned, thinking of Seymour and his feathered bride and how they’d had to make do with a cruder home. Maybe next year …

  She stood gazing out the window at the feeder while cutting strawberries onto the top of her cereal. A tufted titmouse, several chickadees, and a goldfinch shared the perches, flickering on and off until Christine drove up, scattering them. She jumped out of the station wagon and bounded inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” she said. “Hey, pooch!”

  The dog, who had not risen from where she was lying on her side under the kitchen table, thumped her tail twice on the floor. Having learned the sound of Christine’s engine, she no longer broke into a paroxysm of barking at her approach.

  “Yes…” Meg looked curiously at her friend. “It is.”

  “Here,” said Christine, ignoring the unasked question. “I’ve brought sticky buns. I made them this morning. They’re the best things you ever tasted.”

  “You need to work on that false-modesty thing you’ve got going,” said Meg. “When you’re good at something, just admit it.”

  “Let’s play,” said Christine, sitting down at the table and stretching luxuriously. “Let’s oh, I don’t know, go shopping. Or have a picnic. Or go put our feet in the creek.”

  “You must have forgotten that I’m entertaining tonight,” said Meg. “The Ruschmen are coming to dinner, and I need to impress them. Mrs. Ruschman is the snottiest old bat. So, I’ve got to make the pâté for the Beef Wellington and whip up a few soufflés. And before I can start on that, I have to finish one last worksheet and find an envelope to put this batch of work in. And before I go into town to mail it, I really want to paint the last three pickets. And after all that, I have to start on the stuff for the next deadline, which I will never, ever get done on time because we have nine hundred and sixty-four baseball practices scheduled. I am behind.”

  “Speaking of behinds…” said Christine. “The PTA president, who is one major ass, roped me into making brownies for some do. I’d forgotten. I guess I couldn’t play much either.”

  “Wrong kind of ass,” said Meg. “If someone is an ass, she’s a donkey. A fool. A stupid or silly person.”

  “You’re right,” said Christine. “I forgot I was speaking to a wordsmith. Talking with you, the term that should have come to mind is ‘butthead.’”

  “I’m glad we got that cleared up,” said Meg. “There was what I think was an indigo bunting here earlier. I can’t believe it. Chicago’s got birds, but if you try to encourage them with a feeder you spend most of your time looking at pigeons.”

  “Mmm,” said Christine dreamily.

  Meg glanced at her. “And I’m probably wrong, but I’d swear there was a flutter-winged dimwit out there last week.”

  “Mmm,” said Christine again.

  “You’re not listening,” said Meg. “What’s with you?”

  Christine started. “What?”

  “I was talking about birds,” said Meg. “Beautiful birds. Amazing varieties of birds, to go along with all the green and the clean smells and the late-April breezes.” She gestured toward the window. “It’s a miracle.”

  “No,” said Christine. “It’s Pennsylvania. Now eat a sweet roll with me before I go put on a fetching gingham apron and you get on with your piddling concerns.”

  She left a half hour later, reminding Meg never, ever to slam the oven door on a soufflé.

  * * *

  The fence was neat and sturdy and, best of all, finished.

  “You’ve increased your property value at least fifty bucks,” said Mike, gripping a picket and shaking it gently. “You did a nice job. But it makes the paint on the house look even worse than it did before.”

  “Shut up,” said Meg. She had been on her way back from a walk to the creek when she saw his car turn into the driveway.

  “I just got through a half hour ago,” she said. “Haven’t even cleaned up yet.” A closed can of paint, with a brush resting on top of it, still sat on the grass. “What are you doing away from the office?”

  “Longing to see you,” he replied. “Actually, I’m on my way down to Doylestown to take a deposition. Want to come? It’s a beautiful town.”

  “I should have known you were doing something that required you to look like a lawyer,” said Meg. “You’ve got on a tie. I can’t go, but thanks. A woman’s work is never done. I have to mail stuff and grocery shop and teach doggies how to do as they’re told.”

  Jane and Harding were coming over when Jane got home from school, to start Harding’s obedience lessons. When Meg mentioned the need to work with her own dog, Christine had jumped on the subject and begged her to work with Jane and Harding too, to save Christine from driving them to town for lessons. Meg was happy to acquiesce. She hated to see a dog that hadn’t been civilized, and working with Jane would be fun.

  “Have you decided what we’re betting?” asked Mike.

  “How about painting my house?” suggested Meg. “If I win, you paint it; if you win—ha, ha, ha, fat chance—I paint it.”

  “You missed your calling when you didn’t go to law school,” said Mike. “Keep thinking. How about hitting the Main Street Cafe with me tonight? Or someplace else, if you’re getting tired of homemade pie.”

  “Can’t tonight,” said Meg, a little surprised at a feeling of regret. The idea of sitting across the table from him for an hour was appealing. “But soon.”

  She waved as he drove away, then picked up the paint can and brush and headed for the toolshed. She had taken the lawn mower out a few days earlier to see if it functioned and knew there were shelves where she could store paint—at least until it got cold again. She dropped the paintbrush near the kitchen door so she could take it in and clean it.

  The shed was shaded by a huge maple tree. There were gaps between some of the planks, and it needed a fresh coat of paint even more badly than the house. She unhooked the door and stepped into the spiderwebbed dimness. The shelves had been constructed by, or for, a taller person; the space underneath held a huge, heavy lawn roller. There was an old shovel but no trowel, rake, or spade. Meg would have to buy those herself.

  She stretched for the bottom shelf but couldn’t quite tip the paint can onto it. She looked around for something to stand on. Not the mower; it had wheels. Next to the lawn roller, pushed back against the wall, was an old wooden milk crate with a wadded-up tarpaulin inside.

  I’m a dolt, she thought. If I’d
bothered to look out here before painting, I could have kept paint off the grass.

  She pulled the crate out and upended it, stood on the bottom, and slid the paint can onto the shelf. When she picked up the crate to right it, the tarpaulin fell out. Scooping it up to stuff it back in the crate, she heard a clatter. She looked down at the concrete floor of the shed. Something was lying by her right foot. She picked it up and looked to see what it was, then tucked it into her shirt pocket and put the crate back in place.

  Someone, it seemed, had once used the tarpaulin and then gathered it up for storage without realizing that a tape cassette had fallen onto it. That was the only logical explanation. After all, why would anyone deliberately hide a tape cassette in a toolshed?

  * * *

  At the grocery store, Meg selected salad greens and bought what she needed for spaghetti. She’d have to use two pots to cook it, but she’d done that before. What for dessert? Ice cream was easy but not practical, given her freezer. Mike was wrong. It did freeze ice, if she gave it long enough, but ice cream would be mush by dinnertime. So, she’d pick up something at the bakery.

  She turned up an aisle and saw Jack setting a quart jar of honey into his cart. She was glad she’d changed into a clean shirt and cutoffs, which flattered her, before driving to town, even though the day was really too chilly for such attire.

  “I thought it was only the mothers of large families who bought that size,” she said, stopping beside him.

  “Oh, I’ll use it, eventually,” he said, looking happy to see her. He pulled her gently away from her cart and pushed her up to the shelf. “There,” he said, pointing to the tiny print on the stickers below the honey jars. “And there. See?”

  “Ah,” said Meg. “Unit cost. A man after Ben Franklin’s heart. But why don’t you get your honey from Mr. Eppler?”

  “John Eppler is a heck of a beekeeper and a rigidly upstanding pillar of the community,” he replied. “But he thought I should have gotten Hannah Ehrlich’s lawn mowed more often and blamed me for the rosebush that didn’t make it through the winter two years ago. He didn’t like it that she left me an extremely nice oil landscape … Anyway, he’s not someone I deliberately run into.”

  Meg looked at him sternly. “And was the rosebush your fault?”

  “I don’t think so. Fact of life, you know, like so many things. But John and Hannah went way back—she left him her IBM stock, if that gives you an idea of what good friends they were—and the only way to have satisfied him would have been to show up at her house at nine in the morning and not leave until six.”

  “Christine says you did a lot.”

  “Not enough.” His eyes were serious. “She was a wonderful woman—tough, funny, good-hearted. You think there’s always going to be time; you can finish this or that later … No, I didn’t do enough. And I should have realized how forgetful she was getting. I should have … Oh, what’s the point?”

  He sighed, shook himself slightly, and smiled at Meg. “Taking a break from the computer to stock the pantry? Good idea.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it. You have the day off again?”

  “Dan didn’t need me today,” he said. “He’s off somewhere doing something. I’ve got to kill some time while a tile floor sets before I grout it, so … Want to go get coffee?”

  Meg was tempted. “I’d love to,” she said regretfully. “But I’ve got a ton to do.”

  “How about dinner?” he said. “I need to check the attic anyway after yesterday’s rain; I could stop by and do that, and then you could cook something for a change.”

  “Can’t tonight,” said Meg, hating to pass it up. “I’ve got plans tonight. Tomorrow?”

  Jack frowned. “Got an evening job tomorrow. But I need to see what’s going on with your roof before any leak there might be has dried up completely and—”

  “Hey,” said Meg. “I’m not ancient. I can climb the attic stairs.”

  “What?” Jack seemed taken aback.

  “Keep up with me,” said Meg. “I checked the attic yesterday when I got home. The floor was dry.”

  “Great,” he said. “Because leaks are bad enough, but the wet wood they leave behind can lead to all kinds of problems. Unless you’re fond of carpenter ants and falling plaster. How’s your heating system? Do you even know what you’ve got?”

  “It’s one of those mammoth things that look like giant octopi. Gravity, forced-air. Old. I haven’t been down there since the day I moved in. The system works. I’ve turned it on a few times, and it works … sluggishly, but it works.”

  Jack whistled. “They don’t even make parts for those things anymore. I’ll take a look at it. How about if I stop by on Monday, about five-thirty?”

  * * *

  “Harding, come!” said Jane. The big dog didn’t budge. He was staring fixedly at a squirrel that was pretending to ignore him from a safe distance. “‘Come,’ I said. Come!”

  “First rule, Jane,” said Meg. “Don’t repeat it. He heard you. The darling fellow isn’t deaf; he just doesn’t realize that what you say matters. He has to learn to come the first time you tell him, as soon as you tell him. By the time you’ve shouted four or five times, he’s already run out in front of the truck or caught the rabbit you don’t want him to massacre. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She took the leash and walked around the yard with Harding for a few moments. Then she stopped and waited for him to become interested in the squirrel again.

  “Harding, come!” she said.

  The dog stood, statue-like. Meg hauled the leash in rapidly, hand over hand. When he arrived, surprised, at her side, she praised him effusively. She handed the leash to Jane.

  “You try it,” she said. “Be quick about making him obey. He has to associate the spoken command with the action of arriving next to you. Say it once. Use his name first. Oh, and while you’re training him, don’t ever give him a command you can’t make him obey.”

  They worked for a while. Eventually, Harding got the idea.

  “It’s not that he’s dumb, Jane,” said Meg. “He’s just not used to having to do what he’s told. You’re going to see to it that he gets used to it. Pretty soon we’ll put him on a long rope, and you’ll wait until he actually starts chasing a squirrel before you call him.”

  “What’ll happen?” asked Jane.

  “Let’s see how prophetic I am,” said Meg. “My guess is, he’ll keep going. But if you’ve timed your command right, dug your feet in, and called him just before he reaches the end of the rope, he’ll find out real fast what happens when he ignores you. He’ll hit the end of the rope and get jerked right off his great big feet.”

  “I couldn’t!” said Jane, aghast. “It would hurt him!”

  “Not really,” said Meg. “And how much does getting run over by a truck hurt? I’m not talking about being mean to him. It would be a rotten way to introduce him to the idea of coming when he’s called. You won’t be correcting him—which is a nicer way of saying ‘knocking him for a loop’—before he’s had a chance to learn the command and deliberately disobey it. You do want him to live a long, long time, don’t you?”

  Jane put her arms around the Lab and hugged him. He responded by knocking her down and licking her face.

  “Oh, yes!” she said. “Mom says he’s a doofus and he is. But he’s got the most important thing a dog can have. He’s got loyalty.”

  Meg thought about it. It was the most important trait a dog could have, and Harding did have it. He spent a good deal of time at or near Meg’s house, coercing his beloved into wrestling matches and trips to the creek. But when it got close to three o’clock, he took off for home.

  “You’re right,” said Meg. “The best dogs are the loyal ones.”

  “The best people, too,” said Jane, looking up from her sprawled position on the ground.

  “Hmm…” said Meg. She sat down beside the girl. “Maybe … But with people, don’t you want honest and friendly and, I don’t know, good even mor
e than loyal? I mean, loyal’s great, but…” She searched for an example. “What if a friend of yours were doing something she really shouldn’t do, maybe something illegal or dangerous. Or, say, Teddy was. Anyway, whoever it was, the person asked you to be loyal and not tell. What would you do?”

  Jane thought a moment. “I don’t know about my friend,” she said. “I guess it depends how awful it was. But I’d never tell on Teddy. I mean, I might tell Mom or Dad if it was dangerous, but I’d never, ever tell anyone else. That would be worse than what he’d done.”

  Meg gazed at her. The child’s mouth was set firmly. She looked a lot like Christine at the moment.

  “I guess you come by it naturally,” she said. “Your mom’s surely the loyal type.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Jane, nodding. “But Dad really is. He says you have to be loyal to your family. Always and no matter what.”

  That’s funny, thought Meg. She would have thought loyalty involved communicating. Or was he one of the do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do types? She quelled her resentment of the man. It wasn’t right to judge him. She had no idea what was going on with him. And Christine, it seemed, was happy. Perhaps they had talked long into the night, and everything was, after all, just fine.

  * * *

  At dinner, Meg was reminded of how little she knew Dan. He praised the food and participated with interest in the conversation. Meg understood why, besides his physical attractiveness, Christine was so in love with her husband. It didn’t hurt that he, like Christine, loved her kitchen.

  “You wouldn’t believe the times I’ve had to pull old handmade cabinets out to replace them with golden oak,” he said. “And nobody wants these plain glass doors anymore. It’s all little individual panes but usually, of course, not individual panes at all—just wood strips over glass to make the doors look like individual panes.”

  “What do you do?” asked Meg. “I mean, when somebody’s decided to rip out great old stuff and modernize?”

  “I do it,” he said, shrugging. “People want what they want. It would be harder to legislate taste than morality, and you know what they say about that.”