She kept this in mind while Piper talked of Fellow's teacher, of how Mrs. Reed had said what a good child he was in her class. And it was true. Fellow was the kind of child anyone would love. Strong in spite of the vulnerability of youth, Fellow made friends because of his sympathy toward others. He was kinder than most of his classmates. Fellow stopped rolling the yellow truck and asked to play in the water but was told "no" by his mother, so now he ran up and down the little yard, flying the stringed bat in his fingers. "Now don't you lose that bat, boy," Minerva said. He soared the bat near her head and she grabbed him for a quick hug. He hugged back before he raced off.
George returned, his face pale and his jaw clenched. He bent to sit as if trying to calm himself, pulling his cap off at the same time. "Minerva," he said, "what the hell's up with the papers?" His face contorted and Minerva thought she saw pain his eyes. "Piper, get Fellow, we're getting the fuck outta here." He jumped to his feet and headed around the trailer.
Piper lurched in her seat. "What's going on?" she asked.
"Just do it, get Fellow and come on."
Piper raced to him and grabbed his arm. "Wait, George. What the hell is going on?" Minerva watched her glare at her husband. Breathing hard, she turned her gaze to Minerva. She looks like a child, thought Minerva, as her daughter's expression fell child-like, searching their faces for an answer. "Momma, do you know what's going on?"
"Well, yes, I know what's going on, Piper. Your husband here just found the papers, that's what." Fellow had dropped the flying bat to his side and stood there, little mouth open.
Piper freed George's arm. "George, what papers?"
Her insistence fueled Minerva. "Yeah, Georgey, what papers did you find in there?"
George blinked and clenched his fists. "How dare you, you witch."
Her head tilted and she pointed a finger, jabbing the air. "Piper, I said before, you and George don't need a child. Now you know I said that."
George burst in. "Piper, you knew she'd do it. She went and turned us in to Social Services, said we shouldn't have Fellow in our lives." His voice shrunk with each word and the last was a gruff whisper. "She's trying to get the state to come get him."
Fellow started to move away from Minerva, but she held him back.
"Is this true, Momma? You really called Social Services?" Piper had always called her "Momma" when she was stressed, and her voice trembled alongside her husband's. She stumbled back, rushing to gather Fellow and his yellow truck. "We're leaving."
Minerva eye-balled the two hurrying around the corner, Piper's arm clasped through George's. Fellow looked huge clinging to her, and by sheer adrenaline Piper carried him, one arm wrapped around his back. "I aim to take this one away from you," Minerva yelled, pulling a copy of the papers from her housedress pocket and waving them. "I got these papers, Piper, these are all I need."
The car skidded out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, Minerva saw George's eyes, fixed on her standing there, waving those papers.
She remembered the bat on the ground near the pool and went to retrieve it. Poor little bat. She went inside to fetch the sewing kit to mend the broken string.
Chapter Three
Minerva moved around the trailer, admiring her work. The brown paper turkeys with red crimped waddles perched on the counter top and end tables. A couple of two feet tall ceramic Pilgrims, one boy and one girl, stood in a resin pumpkin patch on the porch near the front door. For a finishing touch, she scraped the bottom of the box for the real bird's nest. Well, it was made out of synthetic oak, but John hadn't known the difference. He loved it when he was little. She decided to perch it on his dresser again. Now when Dill arrived for his visit he could admire the mother and father bluebirds and their two tiny eggs. She smoothed the wrinkles from the bedclothes and fluffed two bed pillows. Thanksgiving was a week away and Minerva was excited for it.
John lived on the other side of town, not far away, but he seemed far away to Minerva. She'd only seen him a few times each year since Henry died, and his room was the same as when he left it years ago: his baseball cap, a stack of Marvel comic books, and a poster of Cindy Crawford in a bikini. She had scoffed at the disgusting poster, but left it hanging there anyway.
When John came for lunch the next day they ate fresh rye bread with butter smeared on top, his favorite. After eating several slices and drinking two glasses of cold milk, he went outside to smoke a cigarette. Minerva watched him squash the cigarette butt with the heel of his boot before shoving it off the porch. He entered the kitchen after wiping his feet on the mat. "Your Uncle Dill will be here soon," she said. "Here, have some coffee. Still use sugar?" Before he could answer, she plopped two cubes in his cup.
"Mom, I gave up sugar months ago, when I found out I have diabetes."
She grabbed the cup and a small amount splashed down the sides. "Sorry," she said, her mouth a fierce line. She turned away, her body still. She didn't like forgetting her son's condition, but hated what sounded like a reprimand from him.
"I'm sorry, didn't mean to bother you. It's just that...."
"Never mind. I didn't forget. The cubes near the fridge are sugar free, so you can have those. I'm forgetful when I have something burning on my mind." Minerva had made up her mind right then to tell John he and his sister were adopted. She turned and looked at him while stirring a pan of gravy.
John took a lemon slice from a bowl and pulled up a stool near the stove. "What is it?" he asked.
She gathered a breath and exhaled slowly, letting the pause before she spoke lend momentum. She ceased stirring the gravy, took the pan off the stove and flicked off the heat. She moved a plate of fried pork chops to the table.
"You're adopted," Minerva said.
She didn't exactly know why she told him he and his sister were adopted. It's not like he hadn't seen the pictures, heard the family stories over the years. And it wasn't like she outright wanted to hurt John. No, there was another reason, a reason that grew and yarned itself through her mind: Minerva thought maybe John would have wanted to be adopted. He didn't want to be her son, did he?
John gaped at his mother. "This has got to be some kind of joke. Why didn't you tell me and Piper this before?"
Minerva couldn't tell if he looked grief-stricken or relieved, but she settled on relieved. She studied his face before answering. "You didn't need to know years ago."
John's sea blue eyes flashed as if a warning signal went off in his head. "You're telling me we're not your kids? Why?"
"Now, Peter...." Minerva saw the expression on his face and almost apologized, but settled on seeing how it went.
"Don't call me Peter. You're the only one who's called me Peter in years."
She waved a hand in his direction, her short fingers fluttering like a bird's wings. "It's your middle name."
"Yes, it's what you call me, but I prefer John. I've gone by John for years."
Minerva flipped a waffle from one plate to another, then grabbed Aunt Jemima syrup and poured the thick liquid round and round on it. "Want a waffle, John Peter?" she asked, her voice like poisoned honey. She thought he was crazy... focusing on his name like that, and it sparked her. She emphasized her words like she was speaking to a deaf old man. "Want... a... waffle?" The Chihuahua's ears rotated with each word while she lay curled under the kitchen table.
He stood and she saw his eyes flash. "What's my name, Ma, who am I? Who are my parents then?"
Minerva batted her eyes as if to knock the depth of feeling from his words. "Why, it's John Peter, you know that," she said, almost whispering. Her head tilted from side to side after she spoke then she twisted her back to him and grabbed the butter.
John grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. "And you know I got tired of Peter years ago, that's why I've been called John for years."
"You are my son. Piper is my daughter." She yanked herself from his grip. "Don't grab me like that again, or you'll be waking up on the floor." She zipped around and began clear
ing dishes off the table. "That's all I got to say about any of this."
"Have you told Piper we're adopted?"
Minerva shoved food from plates down the drain and turned on the disposal. She turned and saw John slumped in a chair, elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Though he and Piper weren't identical, they had the same blue eyes, the same sandy-colored hair. It had darkened to a rich, honey sheen over the years. "God, this is crazy," he said, rubbing his hands over his face.
"Need to get this fixed while you're here, Peter," Minerva said, "It's not eating up food proper. Can you look at it?"
Minerva turned off the whir of the disposal and lifted the dishrag. She adjusted the hot and cold water and began scrubbing a pan with the rough side of it. She felt John's eyes on her. Her heart beat steady.
She washed dishes, checked for missed flecks, before lowering each one on the drainer. Minerva didn't look again at her son. Instead, she dried the last plate, stacked it in the cabinet, folded the damp dish towel, and hung it on a hook under the sink. Anyone could wonder what she was thinking, or what shred of emotion this evoked in her, or how she would deal with her son and his anger. But all that whirled in her head was the garbage disposal and how that last piece of bacon got caught on the dull blade.
Minerva finished cleaning up after the uneaten lunch and saw Uncle Dill through the door window lifting his hand to knock. She wiped her hands on a dish towel thrown over her shoulder and went to the door. Dill was Minerva's brother-in-law, the older of the two Day sons. "Dill, I know you're there, hang on," she said, her voice bell-like, one hand smoothing her hair. She glanced sideways at John. "Didn't take him long to get here, did it? God, planes are fast nowadays."
She poked her head out the door and pointed to the white "luxury" car he drove up in. "The airport gave you that to drive?" Dill had come from his small farm at the border of Arizona. He flew to Pinewood often to participate in the cattle auctions. Uncle Dill had never married and no one thought to ask him why.
After coffee and the afternoon newsbreak, Minerva clicked off the TV and talked of the upcoming Christmas holiday and how she wanted to see the family all together. She glanced sideways at her son but he wouldn't meet her eyes. Minerva apologized to both gentlemen for her "sloppy" appearance and excused herself to go tidy up. They had planned a day at the fair and she wanted to find an antique store. The day was getting away from her.
John and Dill moved to the front porch to smoke cigars. John's uncle had cultivated his habit of smoking a morning cigar for the last ten years. "Thanks," John said, when Dill offered him one. John lit it and the oaky tobacco smell filled the calm air. He took a heavy drag, as did Dill. "These things sure taste good, you know it? Even in the morning," Dill said.
John grunted a yes, the cigar planted firmly between his lips. He turned his head and spit a fleck of tobacco out of his mouth. His head remained cast down toward the weeds at the edge of the porch.
"You comin' out for Christmas?" John asked quietly.
"I doubt it. The farm needs working on during the winter months. I'll be back out next auction."
They puffed the cigars and watched a stray cat skulk around the tires of Minerva's old Chevy pickup, which John's father had owned before he died and his mother chose to keep, selling her brand new Buick before the first payment came due. The pickup saved his mother the monthly payments. Social Security didn't stretch far these days, as she was always telling him, and his father's insurance was meager. John remembered her nagging his father to up the amount of the policy, but his father died before he could. If she was really his mother... but of course she was. His mother said crazy things like that for no good reason.
An hour passed. John mulled over thoughts of his mother. Dill enjoyed the cool mountain air. The air turned icy and it was starting to drizzle. "What do you say we head inside," Dill suggested. They stood, John holding the door open for his uncle. He could hear his mother's blow dryer through the thin wall after they walked in the house.
"It's raining?" Minerva called out. "I hope it clears in time for the fair tomorrow." The blow dryer hit a high speed.
Neither man answered her. John poured another cup of coffee for himself. He pulled a black jacket on over his white polo shirt. He often wore polo shirts since his job maintaining the golf course in Ruidoso required it. He bent and closed a small window over the kitchen table. "Looks like bad weather coming in," John said. "Uncle Dill? Got a question for you."
Dill nodded and his eyes crinkled. He was wise in his sixty-five years and John could tell his uncle liked giving answers.
"What's your real name?" John asked him.
"Well, Dylan Cole, of course. You know that. Your daddy and I had the same middle name. But Dill is something different." He chuckled to himself. "After that book about killing the mockingbird," he said. "Your dad swore I looked like that punk." But his eyes twinkled when he said it and John knew he didn't mind the nickname. "Why do you ask?"
John felt his smile fade with the question. He pulled on his cigar, exhaling gray circles, the corners of his eyes lined with threads. He told Dill what his mother had told him that morning. "She says we're adopted, Piper and me."
Dill grimaced and glanced backward, toward the hall. His white-haired head tilted to meet John's eyes, his uncle's gray eyes flashing.
"Well, son, that's a bold face lie and you know it."
***
Lew snoozed on her little bed near the warm vent in the hall. A wooden table lamp carved into a cross adorned the end table, and Minerva snapped the light on. A warm glow centered underneath it, giving her enough light to see. It was dark outside and snowflakes melted on the yard. She grabbed her glasses from the shelf under it and picked up the papers for Social Services.
After that day with John and Dill, things had been different. They had both seemed moody for the rest of the day, and Minerva couldn't figure out why. Neither one had stayed with her for Thanksgiving.
The fair was mediocre, the popcorn stale, the corn chips like mush in the chili pie. Minerva ate hers and part of Dill's. He complained they loaded too many onions on and his stomach would "talk back" later, but she disagreed. The jalapenos in the chili mixed with the onions gave it that extra kick, along with gobs of melted cheese on top. But, she said, chewing another bite, the corn chips could have been crunchier.
The antique store was worse. Minerva was short thirty bucks for a down payment on an old trundle bed. Both Dill and John offered to pay the difference, but she stood her ground; she would owe money to no one. She didn't want it ground in later on, how she bummed money from the family. John and Dill had declined a Christmas get-together. Dill would be tending to farm business, and her son never answered the phone message she left after he went home.
Holidays. No one seemed to appreciate the effort she put in. After Halloween, Minerva hadn't been able to see Fellow for over a month. And Piper and George had refused to come for Thanksgiving. And then Dill and John left without even a proper goodbye. Her mind glazed over the Social Service papers. She almost sent them last week. But right now the way her black moods took control and made her want to do things irked her. But still, if not her, then who would send them? Someone had to step in. After soul-searching, Minerva realized Piper may not fare so well next time she decided to call Social Services. She would have to intervene, especially if she saw any outright signs of abuse on the child.
She put the papers aside for now. There was time to think of what she would do.
She considered her plan for Christmas. George and Piper and Fellow would come. She loved giving parties, offering gifts, usually homemade, and clapping with delight after someone opened the gift. She wasn't much on sentimental words, spending days making gifts instead: photo frames made of carved popsicle sticks, knitted sweaters and caps, fun doggy treats made from scraps around the trailer, each wrapped in sparkling paper and tied with felt-soft bows.
She was a marvel at giving gifts, if she did say so herself.
She clicked open the metal seal of an album and looked at the first picture, this one of Henry's military days. Minerva couldn't recall his rank in the navy. She viewed her dead husband's picture through the bottom of her tortoise-shell glasses. She reminisced on their first date, and later, their first kiss. Henry's lips were warm and full under his moustache, like the underbelly of a kitten. In the end, she couldn't remember how long it'd been since they'd made love. She chose another picture. This was taken after a stint with the troops several months later. He'd gained thirty pounds on her heavenly gravy, as he called it.
She favored this picture, his eyes like Robin's eggs, blue with brown flecks in them, and his wavy chestnut hair. But peering closer, she saw Henry's expression was blank. She couldn't figure out what bothered Henry that day. He stood mute. While she'd posed everyone for the picture, his moves were forced. She snapped the cover shut, lifted another album, and opened it to the first page.
The corner of Minerva's mouth curved in a delicate smile. Her sweet, blond twins: dressed in bunny suits, his blue, hers yellow and orange, they smiled for the camera. The pink of their toothless gums tugged at her heart. She smoothed a fingernail painted Naughty Apple over the cheeks of her children.
She turned the page and a hand clasped her chest. She remembered when this picture was taken. There was an argument before the kids came in from school. Minerva couldn't remember what they had argued about, but she lost that one, and the usual scorn adorned her face. The kids grew quiet after they burst through the door and their eyes searched Henry's face. She thought Henry asked if she took her pill that day. "Of course," she told him. It wasn't that at all. She wrapped her arms around the children. They grinned at the same time Henry snapped the shot with his new Polaroid One-Step. She saw so much happiness there. It was nice to have children around because of the joy they could bring. It was so long since John and Piper had brought her joy. But maybe Fellow could. It was this picture that now changed her mind about filing the Social Services papers. Oh, she would keep an eye on things, and would change her mind again and file them if she had to. Something would happen and she would have to file them, knowing Piper. But she would plan the Christmas events with her daughter, and yes, her husband, George, and Fellow, her new grandson. Besides, it was almost Christmas, a time of love and goodwill among family.
Minerva Day Page 4