Wallpaper with Roses

by Jenny Andersen

  “I got fired, Mama. “Remember?”

  She watched her mother’s face work with the struggle to capture some wisp of memory, and her heart turned over.

  “Of course,” her mother said.

  But the puzzled wrinkle of her eyebrows said that wasn’t true.

  Poor Mama, trying so hard to save face, to pretend her mind was still one hundred per cent hers. If only Sarah could help, provide some shred of comfort. Instead, she seemed to continually be swallowing anger.

  “Let’s take a walk in the garden,” she said. “You haven’t even looked at the roses for ages.”

  As she hoped, the flowers soothed her mother.

  “You’ve been caring for them very nicely,” Hilda said, nearly unbalancing as she leaned to draw in the rich scent of Souvenir de la Malmaison.

  “I learned from an expert.” Sarah smiled. “Remember when I used to follow you around and copy everything you did? You got me a little basket and child-sized tools so I could ‘help.’”

  After a few minutes, Hilda headed back to the house. Sarah hovered, ready to catch her if she tripped on the uneven ground.

  “Oh, Sarah. You’re home.” Violet pattered into the kitchen just as they came through the back door. “I was just going to fix lunch. But now you’re here, so I won’t have to. Good.” She beamed at Sarah and Hilda.

  Sarah shuddered, remembering the last time Violet had been let loose in the kitchen. Let Violet fix so much as a peanut butter sandwich, and someone would have to spend the rest of the day cleaning up.

  “Where’s Christine?” she asked.

  “Oh, she took a bunch of those fliers you printed,” Violet said. “Miranda drove her out to the country club to put them on cars in the parking lot.”

  “How nice of them,” Sarah said. “Miranda did that?”

  “Oh, yes,” Violet answered. “They’ve gotten quite close lately. I do believe Miranda has taken quite a fancy to our Christine.”

  Hilda eased herself into a chair. “She’s very nice.”

  Sarah cast her a quick glance, trying to decide if she remembered who Christine was, or if that was just a generic comment. “But it really doesn’t matter,” she muttered, and pulled the stewed peaches she’d made that morning out of the refrigerator

  Que será, será.

  Chapter 13

  “It’s Thursday. You know the bathrooms always get cleaned on Thursday, and they haven’t been done yet.”

  Sarah looked up and saw her mother in the doorway of the library, which Sarah had turned into an office. She sat back and swiveled her chair away from the computer screen. “I know, Mama,” she said. “I’ll come do them right now.”

  “You wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t let Sophie go.” The critical edge in her mother’s voice sharpened. “She’d been working here for us over thirty years.”

  Sarah closed her eyes and wished for strength. Sophie hadn’t worked here for ten years. Mitzi’s Maids had taken over, and Hilda had complained about them every week. Now Sarah did it all, with Christine’s very welcome help. “I can do the cleaning perfectly well, Mama.”

  “Of course. But you shouldn’t have to clean up after all of us.”

  True. “I don’t mind. And Christine helps a lot.”

  With an abrupt switch back to alert and focused, her mother said, “She shouldn’t be doing a lot of physical work right now. She’s going to have that baby in just a few months.”

  “I don’t let her do the heavy stuff. And Rob said he’d come over and wash the windows in a couple of days.”

  Her mother considered this. “I suppose that’s all right. Not that any of us can see well enough to tell, except for you and Christine.”

  Her teasing smile was such a potent reminder the younger, happier woman Sarah remembered. “Oh, Mama,” she said, and hugged her mother, trying desperately not to notice how frail she felt, how the thin old bones poked at the papery skin. “How about a snack, and then I’ll get back to cleaning?”

  “Oh, no thank you, dear. I’m not hungry.”

  “You don’t eat enough.”

  Instead of answering, her mother fixed her gaze on a shelf that held some small bronzes and a vase, in addition to books. “Your grandfather brought those statues back from Europe in nineteen forty-five, Sarah. That one has a mark from the Louvre on the bottom,” she said, pointing to a statue of Diana the Huntress. “And the Circassian dancer...”

  This was about the fifth time in as many weeks as Sarah had heard the same monologue. Her mother had become obsessed with the history of every object in the house. When she wound down, Sarah said, “You know, Mama, it would be wonderful to have a real record of all these stories, and I have an idea. You’ll have to help, though.”

  “Well, of course. I’m so pleased you’re interested. It would be such a pity to lose all these bits of family history.”

  A pity. Sure. Since Sarah had no children, the family history was toast when she died. All these cherished bits and pieces would probably end up in a garage sale or the Good Will store, but that wasn’t something she’d say to her mother.

  “Well, Beth has a video camera. What if I borrow it and video tape you describing each of these pieces?”

  “Oh, no, dear. It would take too long.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. You’d just talk the way you did today. Please, Mother?”

  Eventually, Hilda gave in and agreed. “And maybe Violet and Miranda would like to do the same thing. Could we do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Her mother frowned. “I’m sure Rob would appreciate that. As for Miranda, she’s softened so much since she’s lived here, she might even make peace with her children, so a record would be good. But she’d probably want one anyway because she has so many valuable pieces.”

  “How long has it been since she’s seen her children?” Sarah asked.

  “Twenty years, at least. Let me see, it was the summer after that scoundrel Hogbottom left with all the bank money, and that was the year...”

  Since Sarah had lived far away from Crowley Falls for years, some of the rambling monologue was new to her, and, she admitted guiltily, interesting.

  After her mother had settled on twenty-one years as the time since Miranda’s estrangement from her children, Sarah added, “Even though she’s much too secretive about her financial arrangements, we should ask her if she wants to do your tape.”

  “Yes, that would be very nice. You’re a sweet girl, Sarah.”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll ask Beth about the camera.” Sarah got up to start the bathroom cleaning, but her mother plucked at her sleeve. “Before you go dear, I want to be sure that you remember about these statues. Your grandfather brought them back from Europe in nineteen forty-five, Sarah. That one has a mark from the Louvre...”

  The sudden descent into short-term memory loss was a stab in Sarah’s heart. It always hurt more when it followed a conversation that was just like old times. She stifled a surge of grief and resentment and settled herself to listen.

  ****

  Sarah leaned back in her chair and watched Miranda presiding over the teapot with her usual air of high-tea-in-an-English-castle. Casey sat beside her chair, and Fred watched intently from the sofa. Sarah smiled. Miranda had certainly changed her tune about the animals. And lots of other things, too, although she’d probably die rather than admit it. Far from avoiding tea with the moms, these days Sarah looked forward to a chance to relax. Her life had turned into a non-stop round of cooking, cleaning, worrying, repeat, repeat, repeat.

  Violet heaped little cakes on her plate, Christine relaxed in the lounger, looking exhausted as well as huge, poor girl, and Hilda slumped in her chair. “More tea, Mama?”

  Hilda nodded, so Sarah picked up the cup and held it to her lips. Those poor, shaky hands couldn’t manage even a half-full cup reliably any more. But this afternoon, after her nap, Hilda had shown a trace of her old vanity, wanting her hair fixed, and a pretty blouse.

 
; Sarah sighed, knowing she’d be the one to deal with the food spills on the fine periwinkle silk. But it was worth it to see the spark of interest in her mother’s faded blue eyes. She reached over and took her mother’s hand. A faint answering squeeze brought a smile to her lips.

  “Lovely, dear,” Hilda said. “I know it’s a lot of work to do a fancy tea, but I do enjoy it so.”

  “That makes it worthwhile, Mama.” If only the lucid moment would last, Sarah would do more than this. Before she could say anything more, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she said.

  The man on the doorstep was a complete shock. “Now what, Mr. Macklin?” But he must be here to talk about work. Probably to complain about something she’d done before she was fired.

  “Miss Gault.” He looked firmly over her shoulder, refusing to look her in the eye. “I understand your mother is not doing well these days. I came to offer my sympathy—condolences—to see her—to bring her these,” he stammered, and thrust a bouquet of tender, pale lavender roses at her.

  Sarah stared at him for a moment with her mouth hanging open. “Uh,” she said, as incoherent as he was. “We’re having tea in the living room. Why don’t you join us?” She stepped back and held the door for him to enter.

  “Thank you.”

  She ushered him into the room, and he took a chair near Hilda.

  “Hilda. You’re looking lovely as ever today,” he said.

  Sarah paused in the doorway to watch. The roses could wait for a few minutes.

  Hilda stared at him with the blank, uncomprehending expression that said she didn’t have the faintest idea who he was.

  Sarah knew that expression. She started across the room to rescue her mother, but saw that it wasn’t necessary. Hilda shifted into what Sarah had always called ‘social gear,’ smooth, meaningless chit-chat flowing like water.

  “Thank you. How very kind of you to visit,” Hilda said. “So good of you to remember that roses are my favorites.

  But Sarah could tell that she still didn’t recognize Mr. Macklin.

  “Well, Homer, this is a surprise,” Miranda boomed, and passed him a cup of tea.

  Sarah saw the easing of tension in her mother’s shoulders, a motion so small that only someone who was watching for it would notice. She relaxed and headed to the kitchen to find a vase for the roses. Someday, she knew, Hilda would look at her with that same blankness.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Terror seized her with an almost physical pain and she lingered over the flower arranging as long as she dared. When she returned to the living room with the roses in a vase, Mr. Macklin had picked up the picture of her mother from the table by the piano. He looked down at it with an expression Sarah had never thought to see on his face. Tenderness, that’s what it looked like. Tenderness and regret, and that surely had to be her imagination. He was a mean old Grinch who hated everyone and went out of his way to cause trouble. He couldn’t possibly look tender.

  He set the picture down and looked at Sarah. “I’m sorry for intruding,” he said. “I’ll leave now.”

  Sarah wasn’t sure what to say. She opened the door for him.

  He surprised her by adding “Thank you,” and by pausing for a moment before adding, “I’m sorry.”

  She watched him scuttle down the walk and into his car. He was sorry? Homer Macklin had never apologized to anyone for anything that she’d ever heard. Unbelievable.

  She shut the door and went back into the living room. “Mama, why does Mr. Macklin dislike me so much?”

  Hilda looked vague. “Homer? Oh, yes. I forgot to tell you.” She focused on Sarah and sat up straight. “Homer asked me to marry him.”

  Sarah dropped a cookie. “He what?”

  Fred batted it under a chair and pounced on it.

  “At church, a while ago,” Hilda said.

  A long while ago, Sarah assumed. “But why would that make him hate me?” she repeated.

  Hilda ignored her and picked up a cookie.

  “Old business,” Violet said with a glance at Hilda.

  “He and Hilda had a disagreement in high school. It would be just like him to still carry a grudge. And to take it out on you.”

  “Since they were in high school? That’s sick.” Awful of her to feel relief, but she couldn’t deny it. It wasn’t her fault. “But how could anyone be such a Grinch?”

  “He is a Grinch,” cried Violet. “That’s the perfect description.”

  “Remember what happened to the Grinch,” Miranda said unexpectedly.

  “His heart grew three sizes that day.” Violet clapped her hands. “I love that story.”

  “Homer has made a success of his life,” Miranda said. “But I doubt money and success have brought him happiness.”

  “Grinch,” Hilda murmured.

  Rob came to the door. “Who’s a Grinch?”

  “Homer Macklin,” Sarah said. “Want some tea?” Casey picked that moment to sidle into the room and nudge her knee.

  “No thanks. But can you come show me where you want the stuff I cleaned out of the garage?”

  “Sure.” Sarah excused herself and followed him across the yard to the pile of ancient tools and bits and pieces by the garage. “Hard to believe all the history those three have. And Macklin, too.”

  “I guess when people live together in such a small community for such a long time, their lives get all tangled together. It’s part of what makes small towns cohesive, Sarah. You have to learn to take the bad with the good.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to be talked into regarding her ex-boss with anything but dislike. “Yeah, well, Homer Macklin is definitely the bad.”

  “That’s what I said. But he has a history with your mother. Didn’t you say she told you what he was like in second grade?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s almost eighty years. Eighty years, Sarah. If you try to cut him out of your mother’s life, out of your life, you’re leaving a big hole in the history.”

  “The butterfly wing hypothesis.”

  Rob laughed. “Don’t sound so disgruntled. Our lives are intertwined, all of us. It’s something to look back at, and it gives us something to look forward to.”

  “In other words, live with it.”

  The laughter was still in his eyes, along with something warm and approving that started an answering glow deep inside her. “You got it.”

  ****

  The next Sunday after church, Violet put a hand on Homer Macklin’s arm before he could escape. “Oh, Homer,” she gushed. “Just the person I wanted to see. Here, sit for a minute.” Keeping up a steady flow of chatter, she tugged him toward a bench in the hallway between the church and parish house. “It won’t matter if you’re just a minute of two late to the Friendship Hour.”

  “You know I never attend, Violet. What is this all about?”

  That was Homer, tactful and accommodating at all times. “I know we haven’t been close for the past several years, but I do so need you to help me,” Violet burbled.

  “I see.”

  “I have to talk to you about Hilda.” Fortunately she had one hand on his arm. It took all her strength to keep him from bolting, but she kept smiling and just plain refused to let go. “Homer, dear, this is so important that I hope you’ll forgive me if I seem to trespass on your privacy.”

  “Really, Violet, my feelings are none of your business.”

  “I know you’ve never stopped loving her, and I want to know why you’ve caused so much trouble. And why you’re so mean to Sarah, who has never done anything to deserve it.”

  The chattering from the meeting room was loud in the long silence that followed.

  “I scarcely think that’s any of your business,” Homer said at last. “If you’ll excuse me now...”

  “Oh, please,” Violet begged. She kept her grip on his arm and he sank back onto the bench. “Hilda has been my best friend for my whole life, and now that I live in her home, her daughter has come to mea
n a great deal to me,” she said. “You’ve been making their already difficult lives even harder. So you see it is my business. And if you don’t come clean”—she was proud of that phrase, which she’d learned from Perry Mason reruns—“you’re going to be very sorry.”

  Macklin looked at her, as stunned as though one of the carved angels on the pillars that lined the covered walkway had spoken. “Are you threatening me, Violet Henderson?”

  Well, he’d gotten the idea pretty quickly. “Yes. How clever of you, Homer. Yes, I am.”

  “With what may I ask?”

  “I wonder how much you’ve really changed since school days.” The flicker in his eyes told her she was on the right track. “Do you think any of your customers would want to know about the time you poured glue on Miss Withers’ chair? Or who put the golden rod in the homecoming queen’s bouquet?”

  “It should have been Hilda,” he muttered.

  “Possibly. But it wasn’t.”

  “Violet, all that was over sixty years ago,” he said. “Who do you think is going to care?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m willing to test it. Are you?” She was tempted to add, ‘Do you feel lucky, punk?’ but restrained herself. This was church, after all.

  “I’ve changed a great deal since then.”

  “I certainly would hope so, although your treatment of Hilda and Sarah leaves room for doubt. You fired Sarah, Homer, when she’s not only an excellent worker but the sole wage-earner in a houseful of dependents.”

  He turned away from her, but she could see a hard, red flush along his cheekbones.

  “You might as well tell me,” she persisted.

  He actually smiled, a small wintery grimace that hinted at more humor than she had expected. “You’re going to keep after me until you get an answer, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, Violet. You know so many embarrassing things about me that I suppose you might as well know this, too. You probably remember the day that Reverend Dobbs held Sarah up as an example of true Christian spirit.”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled, a small reminiscent curving of her thin lips. “Hilda and I were so pleased that Sarah’s good work and sacrifice were recognized.”