Return to Appleton

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I’m leaving for Vegas in the morning,” Tracy said, as soon as they got outside. “If you can call it morning—five o’clock. More like the middle of the night, if you ask me. I’ve pushed up my schedule. Decided not to waste any more time in this two-bit town.”

  “How can you leave? What about the DWI case? You’ll have to go to court soon, won’t you?”

  Tracy shrugged. “When it’s time, I’ll come back.” But the way she said it made Gloria think it was a lie, that Tracy had no intention of returning. Tracy gave her hair another toss. “Anyway, now that you’ve come into such good luck—can’t believe that old coot left you money—probably a bribe so you’d marry the Monkey—though what I’ve seen of you and Cutter lately tells me she could have saved herself the trouble. Well … anyway … now that you’re in the chips, I was hoping you could lend me a couple of thou.” Tracy began to shiver and pulled on her shirt, then wrapped her arms around her bare midriff. “I could really use it. I did manage to scrape some cash together. Even wrangled a little outta my mom. But I’m still short. It’s not just the trip. It’s setting up the new apartment, the security deposit, the whole bit. Sheesh, it all adds up. My credit cards are maxed—those that aren’t cancelled, that is. So I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel …” Tracy’s face flushed. “Not that you’re the bottom of the barrel. I didn’t mean it like that. Anyway … whaddaya say?”

  Gloria’s eyes wandered to the rose over Tracy’s navel, to the tight denim jeans that hugged bony hips, to the metal chain that looked like prison irons around one of Tracy’s black leather boots. What was going to become of her friend?

  The tap tap tap of Tracy’s boot telegraphed her impatience. Still, Gloria remained silent. Tracy had been her friend all her life. There had to be some way to keep her in Appleton. She thought of a half-dozen scenarios—none of them realistic. She felt desperate, panicky, and begged God to give her wisdom.

  Maybe it was the tapping boot, or Tracy shivering in that ridiculous outfit, or maybe it was the tattoo undulating every time Tracy shifted her weight, but all of a sudden Gloria realized she couldn’t stop Tracy. Tracy was on a train that only Tracy or the Lord could stop. And the only thing Gloria would send with her was her prayers.

  “Cutter said he was going to call you and personally ask you to come back to Medical Data,” Gloria said, in a final attempt to pull the emergency brakes of that runaway train.

  “Yeah, the Monkey called. I was wondering how long it was going to take him to realize he was losing money without me.”

  Gloria stared, dumbfounded. Tracy’s replacement was pulling in as much as Tracy ever had. She cringed when she thought of how she had put Cutter through the humiliation of appearing to grovel, when all along he was performing a kindness for both Gloria and Tracy. “Why didn’t you accept?” Gloria asked, trying to keep the anger out of her voice.

  “Why should I help that jerk out? Just because he’s hurting, I’m supposed to forget all my plans and go back to save his bacon? What do I look like, a blooming charity?”

  “You could have a future here in Appleton.”

  “C’mon, kiddo, get serious. I’m outta here, with or without your money.”

  “Then it’s going to have to be without.” Gloria’s heart felt as if it were ripping in two as she watched Tracy’s face drop.

  “I don’t understand. You have the money; you can afford it. I helped you when you wanted to leave town. I did everything I could.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you won’t help me now.”

  “That’s exactly what I am doing.”

  Tracy frowned. “Stop the double-talk. Are you loaning me the money or not?”

  Gloria shook her head and watched anger gnarl Tracy’s face. When Tracy clenched her fist, there was a moment, a single moment as quick as the flick of an eyelid, when Gloria actually believed Tracy was going to strike her. But Tracy just tossed her hair, turned, and walked away. Her boots tapped their farewell on the gray pavement, and Gloria listened while Tracy crossed the street, then turned into Dr. Grant’s side parking lot and disappeared. And standing there instead of running after Tracy and telling her she had changed her mind was one of the hardest things Gloria had ever done.

  For the rest of the day, Gloria was sullen and tried to stay out of both Wanda’s and Malcolm’s way. Physically, she busied herself with emptying supply boxes, tidying shelves, and sweeping corners that hadn’t been swept in a long time. Mentally, she alternated between praying for Tracy and justifying the rightness of her decision not to help. It was an awkward seesaw that bumped rather than glided up and down.

  She was in the praying position of that seesaw when Wanda’s sharp voice reached her in the stock room. “Gloria! Telephone.”

  Gloria leaned the broom against the wall and wiped her hands on a paper towel. Then she headed for the front office, where she found Wanda hovering over the auditor, almost glaring down at him, and holding the phone in a chubby fist. Malcolm, it seemed, paid no attention but sat calmly with his calculator, sharpened pencils, and the shop books spread all over Gloria’s desk. It was obvious that no amount of pressure was going to force him into rushing the process.

  Gloria mouthed a “thank you,” took the phone, then turned her back on the pair. She walked as far away as the two-foot cord would allow. The first thing she was going to do when she took over was get handhelds. “Hello?”

  “I thought we’d go fishing Saturday.”

  “Cutter?” Gloria’s heart lurched. She turned to the side and saw Wanda and Malcolm staring. She tried to walk farther away but felt the cord yank and stopped. “How are you? I mean … how are you doing?” All those dark, murky thoughts she had been trying to sift and organize into their proper boxes suddenly began swirling around as if they had been picked up by the wind and hopelessly scrambled. “I’ve … been worried.”

  “Then why haven’t you called?”

  “I did! About twenty-five times, but you were out of town, remember?” She didn’t want to think about those nerve-racking days.

  “You didn’t leave a message.”

  “What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry about your mother? I hope you’re not drinking yourself to death?” Now, why had she said that? Why didn’t she just leave it alone? She didn’t want to talk to Cutter. Not right now. Not like this.

  “You’d do a banner business writing messages for sympathy cards. ‘A special message from Gloria Bickford—so sorry about your loss, but do stay away from the Guinness.’“

  Gloria closed her eyes and wondered how much of this Wanda and Malcolm were getting and decided everything—at least, Wanda was.

  “Gloria?”

  “What.”

  “Thought you hung up for a minute.”

  “No. I’m here.”

  “Are you ticked or something?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you are. Why?” Silence. “Come on, now—what’s the problem? You’re not still ticked about Sadie? Or the fact I gave you back the cuff links?”

  Gloria let out an impatient sigh. “I was never ticked … angry … about that.” She was startled to feel a check in her spirit and realized the extent of her lie.

  “No?”

  Gloria turned around and saw the bald patch on the back of Malcolm’s head. He may have had his head down, but by the way his left ear tilted toward the ceiling, she knew he was listening. Wanda, on the other hand, was brazenly obvious and stared saucer-eyed while plucking the nest of her bleached-blonde hair. Gloria turned and cupped the phone closer to her chin. This was not the time to discuss anything of importance with Cutter. “Look, I’m not mad, okay? Not now, anyway,” she whispered into the phone, but when Cutter asked her to repeat what she had said, she gave up and resumed her normal tone. “I said I’m not mad. So can we leave it alone?”

  “Then why do you sound mad?”

  “Because you can still rile me faster than anyone I know. You leave to
wn, disappear for days, make people worry, then get uppity because you think they didn’t call.”

  “When you said I made people worry—were you talking about yourself?”

  “Well … me and … others.”

  “What others? I don’t think anyone gave a hoot that I was gone.”

  “Well, Agnes certainly did, and—”

  “Know what I think? I think you’re softening, maybe seeing me in a different light. Maybe liking me, even, liking me a lot, and not just as a friend, either, and it’s scaring you.”

  Perspiration beaded Gloria’s hairline. She closed her eyes, trying to stuff the potpourri of thoughts back into their boxes. How should she answer? What could she say that would make any sense to Cutter? Her commitment to the Lord, to His inerrant Word—was meaningless to him. “Your timing is really lousy. If you wanted to get into this, why didn’t you say something at your house after Charlie finished reading the will? You hardly said two words to me.”

  “As you so rightly surmised, I was hungover. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.”

  “Well, I can’t talk now. I’m at work, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “All right … all right. I’ll leave it alone, if you say you’ll go to the fishing hole with me Saturday. It’s the one place I’ve always been able to relax. And I need that now, a little relaxation.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Gloria, you’ve got to help me out here. I’m as jumpy as a flea. Can’t sit in one spot for five minutes. Can’t relax. And I don’t sleep nights. Can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes … I see Virginia. That woman tormented me all my life. Just never expected her to be able to do it now that she’s dead. I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a field day—pin a fancy name on it, tell me it’s—”

  “Grief. It’s called ‘grief,’ Cutter.”

  “No, nothing so noble. But whatever it is, it’ll go away. Just need some time. But I could sure use a little help now. I figured you’re the one person who would understand.”

  Gloria rubbed her temples. This was the stuff migraines were made of. “Harry Grizwald invited me to Eckerd for the weekend. Why don’t you come along?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not up for that kind of thing.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “I’d be miserable company. Boorish and sullen. You know how I can get, Gloria. Might even embarrass you in front of your friends. Snap somebody’s head off.”

  “I’ll pick you up Saturday, eight sharp—a.m., that is.”

  “You’re twisting my arm.”

  “It’s about time somebody did.” She heard him laugh, and that pleased her.

  “Okay. You win. But I’d still prefer to go to the hole.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Say again?”

  “We could go fishing tonight.”

  “Well … yeah … we could. But it’s gonna be cold—low forties, I hear. At least in the daytime you’ve got the sun, and—”

  “Okay. Just thought I’d offer.” She was annoyed at how disappointed she felt.

  “That was nice of you, Gloria, but I don’t want you catching pneumonia on my account—but thanks. It was nice, really. Guess I’ll see you Saturday, then.”

  “Yeah … okay.” Gloria felt her stomach flutter and took a deep breath. “Cutter … I might as well come clean—you were right. I was miffed about Sadie and the cuff links.” What was with her? Why did she say that, especially now? Before she could get all her thoughts together? And with an audience? She was sure Wanda and Malcolm were getting every word. But now that she had opened her big mouth, it was too late to stop. “I don’t know why I was so annoyed. Maybe because of the way you said it, did it—like you were trying to put me on the spot. And I hate that manipulation thing you do. But I honestly did call you … more times than I can count. I wouldn’t let you go through this … your loss … on your own.” Silence. “Cutter?”

  “You’re pretty honest, you know? And I admire that. In fact, that’s what I like about you and Sadie—your honesty.”

  The mention of Sadie’s name made Gloria’s skin prickle. Great—now Cutter was comparing her to Sadie Bellows.

  “I know I can be difficult, definitely not a sanguine personality. And I’ve been an idiot on more than one occasion.” Cutter laughed. “Okay, try a lifetime. But I appreciate what you said. It makes me realize that you do like me—really like me. And that’s a happy surprise, Gloria. You can’t imagine how happy.”

  “Cutter, you’re all over the place. First, it’s about not calling you, then fishing, then Sadie. Will you stay on topic?”

  “You don’t want me to stay on topic. But I’ll let you figure out why, all by yourself.”

  After she said good-bye, Gloria turned and saw Wanda with her fleshy arms folded under her large breasts, her face a kaleidoscope of disbelief, dismay, confusion. Malcolm’s face, on the other hand, was turned down, obscured; his body hunched over the desk as though deeply engrossed in his work. When Gloria placed the phone on its cradle, she glanced at the papers in front of him and noticed that the one he was so carefully scrutinizing was upside down.

  What could she expect? In a town the size of Appleton, everyone knew everyone else’s business. She walked to the stockroom and picked up the broom. With repetitious forward movements, she swept the dust and cobwebs and bits of paper into a pile. She bent down to gather it all in the dustpan, then stopped and straightened. She knew what Cutter was implying. Was it true? She had been struggling with her feelings for days. There had been a moment, while Cutter was away on his binge and she was walking the floor with worry, when she’d actually sensed that her feelings had shifted, made a detour somehow onto dangerous ground. But she had attributed that to strain, the culmination of an emotional roller coaster she’d been riding ever since Virginia Press announced she was dying. Now … She shook her head. No, it was all nonsense. All misplaced, misdirected, and mislabeled emotions. Because one thing Gloria knew with certainty: She could never be unequally yoked.

  She filled the dustpan, then picked it up. As she carried it to the garbage pail in the corner, a slow smile crept over her lips, like an earthworm emerging from its tunnel. “Oh, my.” She stopped and stood there for several minutes, holding the dustpan and shaking her head. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. She covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her laughter. The whole thing was just too funny. Hilarious, really. But as she laughed, she couldn’t help thinking it was a bad joke, a very bad joke. But God didn’t make bad jokes, did He? She had known for some time that God had a sense of humor, but it was never at anyone’s expense. He just didn’t do black comedy.

  “Trust Me” came the familiar still, small voice.

  Gloria emptied the dustpan and leaned it against the wall. God was really asking a lot of her this time. “Trust Me” had never been her favorite command, but it seemed that now God was raising the bar. Okay … she’d trust Him. What else could she do?

  Chapter Nineteen

  GLORIA SAW THE LARGE, shiny patch ahead and slowed her Escort. Black ice. That’s how she had wrecked the Silver Streak, the car Grandma Quinn had given her about two years ago. It was going to be like this all the way to Eckerd. The weatherman had called for a new seventy-two-hour cold front, a record low, and that meant the little two-inch snowfall they’d had two days ago, which was now mostly slush, was going to turn into a patchwork of hazards.

  As the car slowed, Cutter opened his eyes. “What’s happening?”

  “Black ice,” Gloria said simply and watched, out of the corner of her eye, as Cutter tilted back on the headrest.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “No, thanks.” Gloria turned down the music—something by Michael Card—so Cutter could go back to sleep. She felt uncomfortably like a schoolgirl—nervous and jittery at being with Cutter, but happy too. There were so many unanswered questions. And several sleepless nights had failed to provide any further answers than the one
she already had: Trust Me. “You rest,” she said, still marveling at the recent turn of events.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Mighty thoughtful.” Cutter mimicked a Southern drawl. Then, in his normal voice, “Got only about an hour of shut-eye last night.”

  “What did Virginia say to you … the last time you saw her?”

  Cutter lifted his head. “This your idea of small talk?”

  Gloria shrugged. “Something’s bothering you. Maybe if you talk about it, you’ll start sleeping again.”

  The seat made a thumping noise as Cutter brought it to its upright position. Apparently all thoughts of napping had vanished. “What am I supposed to say after a lead-in like that? You know the problems I had with Virginia. I’m not up to rehashing ancient history right now.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What did your mother say the last time you saw her?”

  Cutter stretched his arm backward and grabbed a bag of chips from the seat behind him. Gloria heard a soft whoosh as he pulled open the seam, then crunching as his hand rummaged around inside.

  “Okay,” she said softly, reaching to turn up the radio.

  “She told me she … loved me.” The words came out mangled, like they had gone through a shredder. “A person shouldn’t wait until she’s dying to tell someone she loves him.”

  All the longing and anger and regret of a lifetime were in Cutter’s words, and Gloria found herself praying, asking Jesus to pour the healing balm of Gilead into him, just as she had poured water into the dry soil of her philodendron this morning, then watched the water stream out the bottom and all over the table. That’s what she wanted to see, Cutter with joy overflowing and bubbling from every pore. The joy of the Lord is my strength. If only Cutter would come to the Lord.

  “You’re not saying anything.” He closed the bag of chips and tossed it in the back.

  “That’s because I’m praying.”

  “For me?”

  Gloria nodded and expected to hear some wisecrack. Instead she heard, “I guess I could use a few prayers.”