She thought of that poor dog Pea. She'd make amends on that, too, before the Christmas holidays arrived. She rehearsed what she'd say before she picked up the phone and dialed Piper's number. She'd tell her she knew Piper hadn't meant to run over her own dog.
***
"Piper, are sure you want to spend Christmas at your Momma's?" George shifted gears and Fellow bounced with every bump, secure in the seat belt between them. Each hand held a matchbox car, and he raced one, then the other, down his legs and up Piper's arm. She smiled and ruffled his hair, thinking about the holidays, and looked at her husband. Piper said she accepted him the way he was, unable to have children or not, and his "physical state," as he called it then, didn't bother her. She knew that having lost the ability to father a child as a result of a lump found in a testicle during his teen years, he had promised himself he'd adopt at least one child when he married - if he could find a woman who accepted his condition. She was happy to accept him with any condition.
"Last time there it was Halloween," she said, "and we were at your dad's last month."
"So what did she do for Thanksgiving since we weren't there?" George turned right when the light changed and pulled into the Cub Scout Cave parking lot. A light snow began to fall. People seemed to be moving in slow motion. Piper tied a knitted cap under Fellow's chin, turned up his jacket collar, and clasped his hands before he leaped from the truck.
"Mom said John was there and Uncle Dill came out but neither of them stayed, so she spent it alone."
George handed her a pair of gloves and pulled on a pair himself. "Why didn't John stay? He's always there for Thanksgiving."
"I don't know...something happened."
They approached a row of fresh-cut trees. The wet snow heightened the piney smell and Piper breathed in deep. Someone burned wood nearby, and the two aromas lent nostalgia to the night air. Fellow skipped down the rows of trees and his gray boots kicked up the powdery snow. They inspected tree after tree, finding several too tall, too short, too expensive. "A construction worker's budget? Probably not, but what would we do without a tree for Christmas? Guess we can pull a Charlie Brown and find a twig," George said. "Minerva can make it pretty."
Piper grew quiet. "Well, there ought to be one for us around here soon," she said.
George squeezed her and placed her small hand in his. "Now what could be wrong with my lady on a romantic evening like this?"
"I'm all right, George." She patted his back and tucked a few strands of honey colored hair under her knit cap.
"What made John and Dill leave early, anyway?"
Piper spotted Fellow tugging on a small tree, bringing it upright on its stem. "Look Momma, here's one for us," he said, cheeks kissed red by the crisp air. "Let's get this one."
Piper managed a laugh. She wished she could give Fellow everything. She often found her heart melting when she'd tell him no and he would look at her with those velvet-blue eyes and smile. Fellow wasn't one to fuss. "We'll see, sweetie." She turned her attention back to George. "I'm not sure, but John was upset when I talked to him last, but I couldn't get him to tell me what went on. Said he just decided to go home that night after the fair, didn't tell anyone bye. Dill left the next morning." Her face grew wistful and she averted her eyes. "Mom spent Thanksgiving by herself." She was often frustrated by her mother, but didn't want her to be alone.
"Is that who called you at Dad's house?"
"Yes. I didn't know what to tell you."
"Oh, John obviously wronged her again." George continued down the next row, Piper followed behind. He untwined a tree from the bunch, shook the snow off, and nodded toward it.
Piper agreed on the tree but didn't smile. "Yeah, anyway, my brother won't be there for Christmas."
Chapter Four
The next morning Minerva squeezed into a pair of denim pants, the waistband stretched to comfortable after years of use. She had lost those last few pounds that kept her out of them, or when she wore them anyway she paired it with her oversized tunic that hid the stubborn spots. She always verged on the edge of plus size. To go with the pants, she chose a dusty rose scoop necked tee. She loved the longer sleeves and the way the soft cotton felt on her skin. She slipped into her black tennis shoes, the bulky but comfortable ones. Silver earrings with tiny pearls completed the ensemble.
Minerva turned each way in the mirror, checking the contours of her face. Not bad for almost sixty. She blanched at how her age managed to pop in her head that way. She wasn't almost sixty. Fifty-five wasn't old, but sixty was old. She always wanted to be younger, especially during the times she was in a "hell mode," as she called the times she'd change and feel sick.
She made a mental note to check the new Maybelline line at Wal-Mart in Ruidoso. Minerva blended a pink streak on the corner of one cheek then did the same for the other. Several gray strands weaved themselves through her still dishwater colored hair. Honey-colored, she called it in earlier days, with a hint of red, like the kids' hair color now. She kept hers on the medium length side, letting it grow to her collarbone before she'd go in for a trim. She liked to tease the top for extra height and then curl the ends.
Sometimes she'd splurge on new curlers or an exotic face peel. She ran the back of her fingers down her powdered cheeks. Maybe after she knitted some things and sold them at the Christmas carnival she'd splurge on another face peel. She loved avocado the best and said it smelled good enough to eat.
Minerva was better these days, on her new "feel good" pill. She had thought of stopping it since the cost was higher than she wanted to pay, and Henry's Social Security only stretched so far. Last time she got off the meds she developed road rage and almost killed a person. Sometimes her temper got away from her. But she would control it better now, and the side-effects weren't worth the trouble staying on them. She felt good and didn't need them anymore. She opened the bathroom drawer, found the pills, and dropped them in the trash beside the toilet.
She sprayed a continuous mist of Sparkling Woman perfume on her wrists and shoulders and especially her breasts, where they overflowed over the top of her new lace push-up. She lifted her chin and inhaled the carnation and licorice scent while it settled on her skin. Henry would pounce on her every time she wore this, at least in their early years. She tightened the strap on her shoulder. This bra was special...half price at Wal-Mart, the prettiest one on the rack. Meant only for special occasions, but she wore it today instead.
Minerva grabbed her macramé purse hanging on a nail near the front door and stuffed a grocery list inside the front pocket. She was going to Sav-A-Lot to shop.
***
"Hey Beautiful, how are you today?" Walter said after he swiped a box of Little Debbie cakes across the bar code reader. His sideways grin tended to stir Minerva's heart, but today it melted it. She faltered a bit, and a rose glow spread across her cheeks. Most of the groceries in the cart were goodies: Fiddle Faddle, the ones with the chocolate peanuts, of course, and her Little Debbie's, and...She searched fast for something that looked healthy and moved a chard of lettuce to the front, where Walter punched in the numbers. She liked the way his fingers moved across the panel. Walter calling her 'beautiful' always threw her off, and she didn't know how to answer right away. She wondered if he could see the swell of bosom through her tee.
"Still using the stamps?"
Minerva almost said she didn't use food stamps. "Well, I...."
"I'll just drop the stamps in here. Better keep shopping here so you can use the stamps for that wonderful Farberware." He winked and the blood rose from her chest to her cheeks. She realized she was blushing again and stole a glance at the customer behind her to calm her nerves.
"Thank you," Minerva said, "that'll be okay."
Walter flashed well-formed, white teeth. "Hey, she does talk."
"Now you're teasing me." She took more time than usual to grab her bags. He came around the counter and helped her load the cart. "Thanks," she said again. She stubbed her toe on the back
wheel of the cart and a sharp pain shot up her leg.
"Ouch, you okay? Here, let me help." He grabbed the handle and rolled the cart through the door. A flustered customer jerked his cart and moved to the next checkout. Walter signaled to a clerk at an open register and he moved to take Walter's place. Minerva liked that he was almost the Assistant Manager and had special privileges.
Minerva straightened her shoulders to accent the shape of her figure. Pushing through the door, she caught a whiff of her own perfume and it encouraged her. "Wow, how lucky can a girl be, someone handsome toting my groceries." His shoulders straightened, too, and they both hastened to the car.
Trunk shut and empty cart in tow, Minerva heard a sound and turned to Walter. He was jingling the change in his pocket. "Mrs. Day..."
Her eyes stole back to his face. "Call me Ms. Day, or Minerva."
"Would you like to see a movie sometime, or maybe dinner? I'm an excellent cook."
"Yes, at my house tonight?" she asked. The words tumbled out, but she corrected herself. "Or maybe Friday." Just because they had talked for days before now didn't mean she could jump into a date this soon. Minerva remembered when she first saw Walter. It wasn't long afterward that she would make a point to say hello, or ask him a question about this product or that sale. Their consistent eye contact and grinning at each other had confirmed to Minerva his interest.
"Hey, that would be great. Tonight then - your house. I'll bring stuff to cook. That okay?"
"Why sure, that sounds fine. You know where I live. I mean..." Minerva said, the tip of her nose turning red, "let me give you my address." They both grinned like they were new in the ways of romance. Walter scribbled the address and asked for her phone number. "See you at six?"
"Let's make it seven," he said. "If you don't mind. I get off at five." He turned to leave and Minerva watched him walk: tall, which she liked, but not as tall as Henry. On the skinny side, but broad shoulders. The dimple wasn't bad, but his salt-and-pepper hair could use a trim. Driving out of the parking lot, she thought of his eyes. She was glad she had quit the high costs of Food Barn for the more reasonable costs of Sav-A-Lot. Those eyes. They reminded her of Buddy Holly's, glasses and all. Although she hadn't dated since Henry died, she couldn't resist Walter.
***
By seven forty-five, Minerva was sprinkling cayenne pepper on what remained of her first shish ka-bob. She had eaten a chunky bite of yellow roasted pepper off the stick first, a piece of white chicken next, a white potato with the peeling still on, and last was a piece of sausage that she could only eat with pepper on it. But she didn't mention her dislike of sausage to Walter, who had arrived promptly at seven, two grocery bags in his arms.
Minerva perched on a chair and watched while he cut the vegetables and meat and opened a large plastic bag for the skewers. "I'll load the veggies and meat on them if you'd like," she said. After six skewers were tucked in the oven, Walter unwrapped a package of rolls, complete with butter stuffed in the centers, and put them aside to brown later.
Minerva noticed Walter didn't talk as much through the preparation of the meal, his attention centered on cooking, but she saw him stealing glances at her while she chatted. He would smile and nod his head, the dimple on his cheek deepening. Walter wiped his hands on a paper towel, and, heading to the bathroom, stopped to look at the pictures hanging on the walls in the hall. Minerva followed and pointed out "Piper... John... Frederick and Mother." The best she could do was state her father's name and not call him Old Man.
Walter asked about the twins. "What do they do? Are they married?" Minerva told him John wasn't married, but Piper and George had been together for almost four years now. Yesterday they signed final adoption papers for Fellow, their son.
Walter popped the last piece of sausage off the skewer into his mouth. "So, if you don't mind my asking, how long ago did you lose your husband?"
Minerva stifled a giggle. She didn't think people lost their spouses. They died. "He died four years ago, this last August." She watched Walter chew and thought his mouth cute, like a mischievous little boy's, and once or twice a smack would escape his lips. "When did your wife die?"
"Lost her ten years ago. We were both fifty-four then." He sipped his tea. "Died of cancer. No kids, thank God. It was horrible."
Minerva clicked the numbers in her head. He's sixty-four? "Oh, sorry to hear that."
"Was Henry sick, or...?"
Minerva dropped her fork on her plate, where it bounced to the floor. She pursed her lips and bent to pick it up. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to mention... Here, let me get you another one," Walter said.
Minerva grabbed the fork and swiped her napkin across it. "That's okay, this one's still good. I just don't talk much about Henry these days." She reached for another buttered roll and put it on her plate. She pointed at the bowl. "Want another?"
"No, thanks." Walter chewed a bite and Minerva saw him frown. He changed his mind and took another roll. "It bothers you to talk about Henry?" he asked.
Her face a blank now, Minerva took a bite of creamed corn. "Oh, no. It's that, people didn't understand, is all."
She avoided Walter's eyes.
"Understand what?"
She cleared her throat, pushed herself from the table, and began gathering the dishes. I'll be damned if he's going to corner me into answering questions. "Can I get you something while I'm up?"
Walter scratched a tuft of hair on his head. "No, I'm okay, thanks," he said. Minerva stood at the sink and loaded plates, pots, and silverware into running hot water. She opened and closed the fridge, put the butter away, then sealed a tea jug and squeezed it in. "Would you like some help? Here, let me get those pots." He gathered one on top of the other and put them in the sink.
"No, no, I can do it." Minerva pulled in and her shoulders scrunched to her neck. The only outlet for her frustration was immersing herself in cleaning up. Even after four years, talk of Henry touched a nerve within her and she recoiled at the thought of having to reveal her innermost feelings. She wasn't going to divulge anything.
"Please, let me help." He ran the scouring pad over the bottom of the pan.
Minerva grabbed for the pad and knocked over a glass. "Just leave me alone—let me do this." She rolled the glass into the sink and it thudded inside the pan.
There was silence for a moment.
Walter cleared his throat and pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Minerva, guess I better go, it's getting late." He bent to gather his jacket off the back of the chair and she moved to help him. "It's been wonderful," he said.
His action caused her to snap out of it and her mouth dropped to a lazy arc. "Oh, you don't have to go yet." She walked toward the TV. "We can catch the nine o'clock news if you'd like."
Minerva watched him pull his jacket sleeve up his arm. "This old soldier is dead tired." He didn't look tired, but Minerva followed outside. The chilled night air clung to her skin and the porch was wet with dew. "I had a good time, Minerva."
A lurch stung her chest like she'd been hit with a hammer. "Maybe we can do it again sometime," she said. Minerva thought she had blown it, but Walter's kind grin put her at ease.
He draped an arm around her shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. "Well, I'll see you at the store, Beautiful."
Minerva pretended to watch a car turning the corner but stole glances at Walter while he backed his Civic out of the driveway. She thought their eyes met once and she smiled, but it was not returned. Maybe he didn't see her. She decided to switch her shopping back to Food Barn.
***
"Don't believe your mom cared for me much," Walter said, speaking of his date with Minerva two nights before. Piper sat sipping coffee with him at the snack bar at Sav-A-Lot, where he'd spent his twenty-minute break time for the last ten years. The area was large, about ten tables and eight booths, and Walter always claimed the corner booth, which was mostly out of view. Walter did paper work and built schedules while watching the early-morning coffee drinke
rs and moms feeding their kids on the go. Piper had seen Walter every week for the last few years and so she was comfortable asking to join him at his table.
"Mom's like that," Piper said, her eyes skimming his calloused hands. A retired cabinetmaker, Walter had said his hands became so rough from shaping wood he could use them for sandpaper, but he'd rather spend his last days bagging groceries than slathering ointment on his bleeding palms. He was so good at his craft, the townspeople complained affectionately they'd never speak to him again if he quit his business.
"She doesn't say much when she's on the spot. Trust me, Walter, she's interested." Piper grinned, crinkling her blue eyes.
Piper knew of Minerva's interest in Walter. They shopped one day for a cake for George's birthday and it was obvious from the time they walked in. Her mom's eyes followed the man wherever they saw him and Minerva ended up spending triple the money on items besides a birthday cake. Piper encouraged her to pursue, saying "Yes, you do like him, Mother, or you wouldn't have plunked a second box of toothpicks in the basket while trying to catch a glimpse of him turning the corner." Minerva denied this and said she'd lost the sweetheart of her youth and was in no shape for another romance. Piper reminded her of the four years since Henry's death. "You don't need to be alone," she told her mother. That met with a "shut up" and a girlish wave of the hand. But the talk put a spark in her mom's eye. She even splurged on a gift for George, a two- pack of silk boxers with red chili peppers all over them. When they left the checkout, Minerva talked on and on about how "the clerk" winked at her. Piper had laughed and said her mother better come back to the store soon or someone else would snatch Walter up.
Minerva Day Page 5