Return to Appleton

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I thought you were looking for something around three thousand.” Cutter twisted his Appleton High ring around his finger and wondered why women were so confounded unpredictable. “Isn’t that what you’ve been saying? At least, that’s the price Pearl Owens has been broadcasting.” He heard Gloria sigh.

  “I’m going to have to pass. But thank you, Cutter. That was very nice of you.”

  The peevishness had finally gone from her voice. At least that was something. “Well, okay. If you don’t want to look at it.” He twisted his ring again. “What’s your bottom line, anyway? In case I come across another good buy?”

  “Actually, I’m going to have to put this whole car business on hold for a while. But Cutter … thanks. I mean that.” Her voice had lost its edge and was sweet, almost as sweet as one of Clive McGreedy’s apples. “I really appreciate the call.”

  Absently he traced figure eights on the kitchen counter with his finger. “Sure … anytime.” Why couldn’t a woman be more like a man? Solid and sure? Say what she means?

  “And Cutter … please go see your mother.”

  There went Gloria’s voice again, changing like the weather, suddenly stormy and cold. “Why? You trying to tell me something’s wrong?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just saying your mother would welcome a visit. She … misses you.”

  After Cutter hung up, he paced the floors of the big, lonely Tudor replaying the entire conversation. Twenty minutes later, he still couldn’t make sense of it and turned on the TV. Gloria Bickford could still rattle him like no one else.

  Gloria sat on the couch with Tiger sprawled across her lap. She listened to him purr and tried to get her mind off Cutter, but it wouldn’t budge. She shouldn’t have been so curt. It wasn’t his fault she had made that unreasonable promise to Virginia. How could she have let Virginia talk her into something so wrong? A son had a right to know when his mother was dying.

  Gloria let her hand slide to the side, then felt Tiger nudge it with his head. “Where is your pride?” she whispered, smiling at his shameless effort to get attention. She resumed the gentle scratching behind his ears and thanked God for giving her such a pleasant companion. Then she began thinking about Cutter again.

  She had been almost rude. And here he was trying so hard to be nice … so … what was the word Cutter used? Neighborly. Yes, so neighborly. And she had been so miserable.

  Oh, why did she make that promise to Virginia?

  Geri Bickford pulled her gold Volvo to a stop in front of 52 Elm Street, then turned off the engine, and just sat for a long time, staring out the window. What was she going to do? Sit here all day? Suppose someone spotted her and came over to ask what she was doing? She twisted the rhinestone tennis bracelet around her wrist, then drilled the steering wheel with her fire-engine-red nails.

  When she spotted Ivy Gordon’s car in her rearview mirror, Geri sucked in her breath and held it, as if the slightest exhale was capable of alerting the world to her presence. But Ivy passed without noticing her and drove down the street out of sight. Geri scanned the neighborhood and was relieved to see it deserted. That’s all she needed, some busybody grilling her.

  Sunshine streaming through the passenger windows made the interior of the car swelter. No way could she stay like this much longer. Either she’d have to open a window or open the door and get out.

  Instead of doing either, she pulled down the visor and checked her hair in the mirror. Now why was she doing that? Her mother never noticed her hair anyway. Or her makeup or what she wore. It never seemed to matter to Hannah what Geri looked like. At least Geri had put more effort in with Gloria. She had tried for years to help her daughter improve herself. Surely, that was to her credit. Nobody could say she hadn’t tried. Not that Gloria appreciated it.

  Gloria.

  How was she going to tell Gloria about Clancy County Home for the Aged? Maybe it would be best to first get Grandma Quinn to agree to move there before bringing it up with Gloria again. But Geri had spent half the night trying to come up with a convincing argument, and she couldn’t think of one single thing that would carry any weight with her mother.

  Geri fiddled with her bracelet, running her fingers, over and over again, across the zircons and then the gold-plated clasp. Even from where she sat, she saw that green paint was peeling off her mother’s front door; saw that the front step was listing to the right; saw the crop of weeds overrunning the small flowerbed to the left. The neighbors must really love this. They must talk about this eyesore of a house. About crazy Hannah Quinn who sings gospel hymns at the top of her lungs while baking like a fiend. About the possibility of crazy Hannah really setting fire to her house next time and, inadvertently, to the whole neighborhood as well.

  No. Geri couldn’t allow this to go on. She’d have to march right in there and explain things to her mother. Lay it all on the line. Tell her what people around town were saying. Point out the pathetic state of her house. Confront her about those ridiculous grocery bills. Tell her that she was going to a nursing home and that was that.

  Geri gave her bracelet a final twist, but instead of opening the door and heading for the listing step and peeling door, she turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

  “Well, the madness has started.” Gloria handed Wanda a pile of new print orders and watched her blow wisps of bleached-blonde hair from her forehead. “Charlie Axlerod wants flyers listing all the contests the Chamber of Commerce will be sponsoring. Tad Bicks wants raffle tickets for his ‘Ice-Cream Extravaganza’ sweepstakes. And Sam Hidel wants a bulletin of specials he’ll be running the whole two weeks of the Apple Festival. And that’s just the beginning.”

  Wanda flipped through the rest of the POs in her hand and grinned. “Yeah. Don’t you love it?”

  Gloria’s eyebrows arched. Maybe she’d love it more if Wanda didn’t get so crazy. But Gloria knew that by the middle of the Apple Festival both she and Paul would be tempted to put tranquilizers into Wanda’s daily SlimFast. “Well … love might be too strong a word.”

  “Okay, how about the word appreciate? Because it’s going to be all this Apple Festival work that pays for that new computer you’re so fond of.”

  Gloria eyed her Pentium 4 HP and her seventeen-inch SyncMaster flatscreen monitor and smiled. “Appreciate is a good word.”

  “I thought so.” Wanda’s big hips bounced from side to side as she moved around Gloria’s desk, going nowhere in particular. “But we’ve gotten a lot more orders than last year, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

  “Maybe because word’s gotten out that you have an innovative genius on staff.”

  “Think so?” There was a mischievous look in Wanda’s hazel eyes.

  “Could be.”

  “Then you’re taking responsibility?”

  “Responsibility? You mean credit, don’t you?”

  “No. I mean responsibility. And since you obviously are, I think it only right you also take responsibility to correct the situation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Overtime. It looks like you’ll have to work lots of overtime.”

  Gloria leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Sure, Wanda. I love overtime. I’ve got some extra expenses, and at time and a half I should clear them up in a jiffy.”

  Wanda’s face reddened right up to her bleached roots. “Now … who said anything about time and a half?”

  “Paul.” Now Wanda looked positively purple.

  “Paul! Paul! Get in here!” Presently, the tall, lanky man appeared with a green towel slung over one shoulder. “Did you promise this upstart time and a half for OT?”

  “Wanda, you know people around town swear that both you and Charlie Axlerod have the first dollar you ever made. You don’t wanna go playing into that misconception by taking advantage of your help.”

  “Taking advantage? Pffffff.” Wanda dismissed her husband with a wave of her hand, then turned and winked at Glor
ia. “Before you know it, the upstart’s going to own the place.”

  Gloria unlocked her bike chain and shoved it in her backpack. The lock was something new. Something she’d stop using once the Apple Festival was over. But the festival wasn’t even here, and already strange faces were crowding the shops and streets. She had stayed late trying to fill some of the POs she had given Wanda earlier and could see, by the last dying glow of the sun, that she had stayed longer than she’d intended. Not that she was afraid of pedaling home in the dark. She had gotten over Santa Claus a while ago and no longer felt skittish at night. But now it was too late to go to Grandma’s. The trip took at least thirty minutes by bike, and that meant another thirty minutes home, and she was just too tired. She could sure use a car.

  But that dream was on hold. Sam Hidel had just given her another one of Grandma’s bills. Seventy-five dollars. It seemed like every time Gloria had extra money, something came up. At this rate she’d be eighty by the time she got her car.

  She kicked the stand up and was about to mount when she saw a man standing in the shadow of the building. A second look to see if she recognized him told her he was a stranger, an out-of-towner—probably here for the festival. But why was he hanging around this end of town? The shops were closed. The movie theater, Tad’s Ice Cream Parlor, and the arcade all were at the other end of town.

  No, she wasn’t going down that road again. Letting every fluttering leaf and scampering squirrel make her jump. She had buried Santa Claus once and for all. Quickly, Gloria got on her bike and pedaled away. Not ever bothering to look back.

  When Gloria came out of Appleton Printers the next night and saw the same man lingering in the shadows, she wasn’t as calm about it. And when she pulled away on her bike, she looked back for one brief second.

  Chapter Eight

  IT WAS SATURDAY, and Gloria sat in Grandma Quinn’s kitchen watching her mix oatmeal cookie dough in her beat-up metal bowl. Already the batch in the oven was causing Gloria’s mouth to water. And the smell … Back in Eckerd, Gloria had dreamed of her grandma’s kitchen and these smells. There was something about the aroma of cookies that made Gloria feel that all was right with the world, even when she knew it wasn’t. Like now.

  Grandma said she was baking them just for Gloria, but Gloria wasn’t so sure. Just this morning Sam Hidel told Gloria that Grandma Quinn had been in twice that week, emptying his shelves of flour and sugar and other baking goods. The expense was getting enormous. And that wasn’t counting the cab fare every time Grandma came to Main Street.

  Mother hadn’t mentioned putting Grandma into a nursing home again, but it was only a matter of time. And what was Mother going to say when she found out Gloria was paying Sam Hidel’s bill? She’d probably blow her stack.

  Well, let her.

  Still.

  Gloria should try to put a stop to it. She should try to persuade Grandma to go shopping only once a week, and when her baking supplies ran out … well … they just ran out, that’s all. But the happy look on Grandma’s face as she scooped rounded spoonfuls of batter and dropped them onto the lightly greased baking sheet cracked Gloria’s resolve.

  She sipped the green tea Grandma had made her and tried to regroup. Maybe taking another route was best. She thought for a moment, then hit on an idea. “Grandma, you think you’re on your feet too much?” Gloria was glad Grandma was actually wearing her hearing aid so she didn’t have to shout. “I mean, with all the baking you’re doing these days.”

  “Geraldine been complaining?”

  “Nooo … well … she is concerned.”

  “She thinks I’m off my rocker. Go ahead, Gloria, and tell it like it is. I know what’s been going through that brain of hers. She thinks I’ve lost it. But you don’t, do you, pumpkin? Oh, mind you, I’m not as sharp as I used to be, but Grandma’s still got her marbles. At least most of them.”

  “I know that, Grandma. Only … only, I wish Mother understood. She’s—”

  “Thinking of putting me away. That’s it, now, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Grandma, it won’t happen, so don’t worry.”

  “But she’s thinking about it all the same. Geraldine’s thinking about it, isn’t she?” Grandma put down the wooden spoon, wiped her hands on her red-checked apron that was made from the same bolt of fabric she had used for the curtains and chair cushions, and turned to face Gloria. “It doesn’t shock me, and it doesn’t hurt me either, so don’t you fret. It’s what I would expect from Geraldine. She’s got no reserves to draw on. Not like you and me. She’s got no Jesus to go to with her troubles, and believe me, Geraldine’s had plenty of troubles. So we have to be patient with her. We have to excuse some of her ways.”

  Gloria tried to swallow her anger by taking another sip of tea, but the indignation stuck in her throat like one of Tiger’s hairballs. “I don’t see how you can be so forgiving. I think it’s downright disgusting that Mother could even think of doing such a thing. I mean, look at you, Grandma. You’re no more ready for a nursing home than I am.”

  “Resentment’s still got a hold of you, pumpkin.” Grandma Quinn walked over to the table and sat down on one of the red-checked cushions. It was the only fabric Gloria had ever seen in Grandma’s kitchen. Years and years ago, Grandma Quinn had bought an entire bolt of the stuff, and she always redid the cushions and curtains and aprons with it whenever they got worn. “Oh, you’ve made some progress, but it’s still got its teeth in you, and you’ve gotta shake yourself free. Anger’s a funny thing, pumpkin —either you are going to master it or it’s gonna master you.”

  “I try to understand Mother, and I try to be patient. But sometimes it’s hard.”

  Grandma’s soft, chubby hands smothered Gloria’s with warmth. “You gotta know this … Geraldine was always beautiful. Even when she was a baby, people would stop and stare. I tried to downplay it. Not fuss too much with her hair or clothes, so she’d blend in more with the other kids. But by the time she was ten, there was nothing I could do to hide her looks. And by then, Geraldine had discovered she was beautiful too. I remember it like it was yesterday. I caught her staring at herself in one of those pink plastic long-handled mirrors she used to keep on her dresser. She knew I was there, but she never took her eyes off the mirror. And then she said, ‘Mama, did you know I’m the best-looking girl in my school?’” Grandma Quinn rose and walked to the oven and opened it.

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Grandma pulled out a sheet of hot oatmeal cookies and put it on top of the stove. “I just went to the bathroom and had me a good cry.”

  “But why, Grandma?”

  “Because I knew right then and there that Geraldine Quinn was destined for heartache.”

  Gloria shook her head. “I’m sorry, Grandma, but it’s hard for me to feel sad for someone so beautiful, so popular. Someone who had it all.”

  “Had it all? Oh, pumpkin, you got it so wrong. Geraldine had nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Gloria felt her chest constrict. Felt her anger creep across her face like red fingers. What Grandma was saying made no sense. It made absolutely no sense. Maybe Mother was right. Maybe Grandma was losing it. And Gloria couldn’t bear the thought of that. She quickly rose to her feet and grabbed one more oatmeal cookie, then kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Gotta go,” she said, then raced out the door.

  The phone was ringing as Gloria opened her apartment door. She hurried to get it, stepping over cat toys littering the carpet, and almost stepped on Tiger himself as he darted for her legs in his customary greeting.

  Her hand pulled the phone from its cradle just before the answering machine got it, and she managed a breathy “Hello.”

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Tracy?” Tiger circled Gloria’s legs, rubbing against her ankles.

  “The one and only.”

  How should she react? After her visit to Tracy’s house, she had called her friend three times and left messages. This was Tracy’s first call
back. “Well, how are you?” Gloria opted for cordiality.

  “I got your messages, and I’ve been meaning to call. But you know how it is. Not enough hours in a day.”

  “Aha.”

  “I feel bad calling you now. For a favor, I mean, instead of just for the heck of it. It took me a while to get up the nerve ’cause I didn’t want you to think I was using you or anything. Then I said to myself, ‘Tracy, she’s still your friend. Maybe not your best friend anymore, but she’s still your friend.’ So I called. And I was right … wasn’t I? I mean, we are still friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are.” Gloria felt uneasy. “What’s the matter?”

  “You know that crummy job I told you about? The one that paid next to nothing? Well, I don’t have it anymore.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. The Dooleys fired me last week.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Tracy. What happened?”

  “Dr. Dooley—that’s Dr. Stacy Dooley, the witch—told me I had an attitude problem. Just because I came in late a few times, she got all bent out of shape and started raising her voice and making it sound like I was some kind of incompetent jerk. I tried to tell her I was sorry—that I’d watch the time from now on—but she just went on and on like a stuck CD. Well, a person can only take so much, and I finally lost it and told her that for what she and her husband were paying me, she was lucky I came in at all. That’s when she told me, ‘Then don’t.’ I said, ‘Don’t what?’ And she said, ‘Don’t bother coming in anymore.’ Can you beat that? I was so mad I wanted to spit.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I have a few things lined up. Something should open up in about three weeks. Only problem is, I can’t last that long. I’ve made financial commitments. And some of those buzzards are threatening legal action if I don’t come through. I figured a thousand would do it. Tide me over till things open up. I’ll pay you back. Every penny. I promise. What do you say?”