The Remedy for Regret

by Susan Meissner

“I wonder if maybe someone in Paragould—a neighbor, maybe—will remember John Penney and his family,” Corinthia says. “If that John Penney is the same one who until recently also lived in Jonesboro, then a neighbor in Jonesboro will surely remember him, too. You would have more to go on. And you wouldn’t have to make calls to people who don’t know you. Some folks don’t take to calls from strangers, Blair.”

  Blair is nodding. She can see the wisdom in this, I think.

  “How will we find out where he lived in Paragould?” I ask.

  Corinthia smiles and nods her head. She opens up a bottom drawer in a file cabinet and starts pulling out old phone books.

  “You just never know when you’re going to need an old phonebook,” she says.

  She pulls out half a dozen, the oldest dating back to the year after Blair and I moved away.

  Blair picks this one up, turns to the ‘P’s, and then her face breaks into a wide smile.

  “Bingo,” she says.

  I have a pretty good idea where we will spend the rest of the morning.

  Fourteen

  I don’t remember coming to Paragould when Dad and I lived in Arkansas but I remember local classmates talking about going there on weekends to visit grandparents or aunts and uncles. It’s less than an hour’s drive away from Blytheville.

  Corinthia has been here several times, thankfully, so with her help and her old phonebook, we easily find the street where the Penney family used to live. The creamy-white house is smallish and in need of a fresh coat of paint. The flowerbeds underneath the front windows are a tangle of newly sprouted primroses and hearty weeds. There is a rolled up newspaper, yellowed from several days in the sun, sitting on the cement path to the front door. We observe all of this from the windows of Blair’s car as we pull up to the curb in front of the house and get out. I’m about to walk up the cement pathway to ring the doorbell when a young woman with a stroller steps out of the house next door. Buckled in the stroller is a chubby baby with barely any hair. She looks up me.

  “If y’all are lookin’ for the Pattersons they’re gone ’til next Tuesday,” she says across the yards, pronouncing Tuesday like “twos dye.”

  “Actually,” Blair says coming up to stand by me. “We’re looking for someone—anyone—who knew the Penney family who lived in this house some years ago.”

  The woman casts a long look at the three of us, wondering, I suppose, if we are federal agents looking for a fugitive. But she notices the Lexus and probably dismisses this.

  “I need to find the Penneys,” Blair continues. “I have something that belongs to their son.”

  “Well,” the woman says, relaxing a little. “When we moved into this house three years ago the Pattersons were already here. I don’t know any family named Penney.”

  “Is there a neighbor here on the street who has lived here a long time?” I ask.

  The baby in the stroller starts to fuss and the woman pulls a pacifier out of her shorts pocket and sticks it in his mouth.

  “Mr. and Miz Taylor across the street in the blue house have been here thirty some years, I think,” the woman says, looking up from her baby.

  “Thanks,” Blair says quickly and starts to walk briskly toward the road.

  “Thank you so very much,” Corinthia says. “What a cute little one you have there!”

  Blair is already across the street when Corinthia and I begin to cross. Blair is looking at us with obvious impatience, like she is holding an hourglass and the sand is nearly gone. When we reach her, she quickly walks up the curving stone path to the Taylors’s front door. On either side of the path are neat rows of marigolds, which Corinthia is understandably happy to see.

  Blair rings the doorbell and a few seconds later, the front door is opened by a petite woman with silvery-gray hair. Her surprise at three strangers on her doorstep is evident.

  “Yes?” she says warily.

  “Mrs. Taylor?” Blair asks.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Blair Holbrook and this is Tess Longren and Corinthia Mayhew. We’re hoping you can tell us where we might find the Penney family who used to live across the street from you. Your neighbor with the baby thought you might be able to help us. It’s very important that we find them.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Taylor says, wide-eyed. Then she opens her screen door to us. “Won’t you come in?”

  At the same moment I’m certain Blair is about to say, “No, thank you, we don’t want to impose,” Corinthia says, “Well, that’s very nice of you, Miz Taylor. Thank you very much.”

  So in we go.

  “Please sit down,” Mrs. Taylor says, directing us to a living room cluttered with dozens of teacups on display, Victorian dolls and lacy pillow covers. We sit on a chintz-covered sofa that is abloom with fat cabbage roses.

  “Can I get y’all some coffee?” Mrs. Taylor says kindly.

  “Thank you, but—”Blair says, but Corinthia interrupts her.

  “Why we would love some if it’s not too much trouble, Miz Taylor.”

  “It’s no trouble a’tall. It’s already made.”

  Mrs. Taylor disappears into the kitchen and we sit quietly waiting for her to return. Corinthia is relaxed and at ease beside me. Blair, sitting on my other side, is anything but.

  Mrs. Taylor returns with a tray of clattering cups on saucers.

  “Here, dear. Let me move these for you,” Corinthia says, pushing a pair of little teddy bears dressed like ballerinas from the center of the coffee table.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Taylor sets the tray down. On the tray are four cups of steaming coffee despite Blair having said she didn’t want any. There is also a lead crystal creamer and sugar bowl and a plate of Lorna Doone cookies resting on a paper doily. By the time we all have our cups and cookies, Blair seems about ready to explode.

  “So, Mrs. Taylor,” she says anxiously. “You remember the Penneys?”

  “Oh, yes. They were a sweet couple. Patricia had a way with tulip bulbs. I don’t get the blooms she did. I never have.”

  Blair leans forward and I almost feel like I should hold her down to keep her from pouncing on our gracious hostess.

  “And you remember their little boy?” Blair continues.

  “Oh, of course. He was a little charmer. In a quiet kind of way. He never said a whole lot, but he was very polite.”

  “And his name?” Blair says, licking her lips nervously.

  “Why, Timmy, of course,” Mrs. Taylor says slowly, like the three of us surely should’ve known that already.

  “Miz Taylor, these girls found Timmy on my church doorstep when he was just a day old,” Corinthia says, coming to our rescue. “The Penneys adopted him when he was just a baby and the girls haven’t seen him since.”

  “Oh, my! Well!” Mrs. Taylor exclaims. “They never said he was adopted.”

  “They didn’t?” Doubt creeps into her voice.

  “No. I mean it’s not a question you ask people. I just assumed he was their own.”

  Blair looks at me like she is thinking perhaps Penny Mollet got her wires crossed. There is fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Miz Taylor,” Corinthia says. “Was there anything… different about Timmy?”

  “Different? Well, like I said, he was quiet, kind of shy. Didn’t always answer you straight away.”

  Blair quietly sighs next to me. Maybe we are looking in the wrong direction after all.

  “Oh, and he did have a limp,” Mrs. Taylor says, like she suddenly remembered something she’d almost forgotten.

  “A limp?” Blair asks, hope in her voice.

  “Yes. Something wasn’t quite right with one of his legs. He had surgery a time or two. He was in a cast more than once as I recall.”

  “That’s him!” Blair whispers, but loud enough for Mrs. Taylor to hear.

  “Yes, that’s Tim.”

  “Mrs. Taylor, when did the Penneys move away?” I ask.

  “Well, let me see,” Mrs. Taylor says, laying a hand
on her cheek. “My grandson Philip was about two when they moved in and Timmy was just about the same age. They came from a house they were renting in the country, I think. I am thinking Philip was eight or nine when they left, so I reckon it was seven years ago.”

  “Do you know where they moved to?” I ask, knowing how close we might be.

  “Well, I think they moved to Jonesboro. John Penney was a schoolteacher, taught at the high school here. I think he got a better payin’ job there. You know, they can pay more for teachers in the bigger towns.”

  But I know Blair and I really hear nothing she says beyond the word, “Jonesboro.”

  “Did you keep in contact with them after they moved? Do you know if they’re still there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think maybe not.” Mrs. Taylor says. “We kept in touch for a couple of Christmases but I think they didn’t stay long there.”

  “Thank you very much,” Blair says abruptly, standing up. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re welcome,” Mrs. Taylor says, her voice betraying that she is sad our visit is over. She stands too, and Corinthia and I follow.

  “That was wonderful coffee, Miz Taylor,” Corinthia says. Then Corinthia looks down at the end table she is standing next to and notices a photograph of three children in satiny, pink frame. “Oh, what lovely children! Are these your grandchildren?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Taylor says, her voice brightening. “That’s Philip. He’s fifteen and he’s the oldest. He’ll be sixteen in August. Next is Eliza Jo, she’s twelve, and the youngest is Daisy. She’s nine.”

  “What beautiful names they have,” Corinthia says. “You know, I have a daughter with the name of a flower, too. My Marigold is fifteen, just like your Philip.”

  “Well, now, Marigold is a very pretty name for a girl,” Mrs. Taylor says. “And I happen to like marigolds very much.”

  “So I noticed!” Corinthia says, smiling broadly.

  “Well, thank you again for your help,” Blair says evenly. “I’m very grateful.”

  “Well, I hope y’all can find him,” Mrs. Taylor says. “I’m sure it will be nice to see him again after all these years.”

  “Yes, yes, indeed,” Corinthia says. “Goodbye, Miz Taylor.”

  We make our way across the street, back to Blair’s car. Mrs. Taylor stands on her doorstep watching us get in. Corinthia lowers her window in the backseat and waves as we pull away.

  “Was all that really necessary?” Blair grumbles low enough that Corinthia may not have heard it.

  “Was what really necessary?” Corinthia heard it.

  “Going inside. Drinking her coffee. Eating her cookies. She could’ve told us from her doorstep the Penneys moved to Jonesboro.”

  “Well,” Corinthia says, and I can see that she is watching the houses go by as we drive. “I suppose returning courtesy for courtesy isn’t necessary, but it sure makes sense.”

  I turn my head to face the road ahead of us. I can’t see her face but I know Corinthia is grinning.

  Fifteen

  We formulate a plan on the way back to Blytheville from Paragould. Blair wants to spend the rest of the day on Samuel’s computer looking up “John Penneys” on the Internet.

  Blair is convinced she will find John Penney, high school teacher, on a school website. All high schools have websites and a lot of teachers have their own websites, so Blair says. How many high school teachers named John Penney can there be? Blair postulated halfway between Paragould and Blytheville.

  Corinthia and I have decided to drive to Jonesboro and do what we did in Paragould; go to the street where the Penneys lived and hope we find a neighbor who knows where they are.

  When we arrive at Corinthia’s, we eat a quick lunch of egg salad sandwiches. Blair offers me the keys to her Lexus when we are done, but Corinthia tells me she wants to drive.

  “Wish me luck,” Blair says as she heads out the door to Samuel’s study.

  “See you when we get back,” I say.

  Corinthia grabs her own keys.

  “I’m glad you quick thought of somethin’ to say back,” she says to me in a soft voice. “I don’t do much wishin’! And I don’t believe in luck.”

  I follow her out to the garage and into her aged but well kept Oldsmobile.

  It is a fifty-minute drive to Jonesboro, giving Corinthia and me almost an hour of time just to us. Not more than a few miles outside of town, I decide to tell Corinthia about the woman in the airport with the three little children.

  “Well, isn’t that something!” she says, when I finish. “She looked just like me, did she?”

  “Yes, it was the weirdest thing,” I laugh nervously. “And she was thoroughly convinced I was the answer to her prayer for help.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t you be?”

  “Well, Corinthia, I heard her ask for it.”

  “But she didn’t know you heard her ask for it. And so what if you did? How can that mean God didn’t put you in that chair next to her so you would hear her?”

  “Well, Corinthia, it was the last chair at our gate. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Imagine that,” she says, looking at the road and smiling.

  We ride for a few more minutes in a silence that seems easy at first.

  Then Corinthia turns her head to me.

  “You know, Tess, yesterday when we were waiting for Blair in my backyard, I didn’t get the chance to ask you how you are really doing. You seem a little bit troubled to me.”

  “Oh, I’m… I’m… I don’t know what I am,” I finally say. I can’t say I’m fine because I am not. She is the one person I don’t want to be fake around.

  “Are you unhappy?”

  “Sometimes,” I reply after a moment’s thought.

  “What makes you unhappy, Tess? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Strangely enough I don’t mind it when Corinthia asks. I think this is what I’ve wanted to do for years, to talk with her about what I feel. But here I am with the opportunity to tell her everything and I cannot seem to find the words. Or the courage.

  “Well, it’s a lot of little things, I guess,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  I give her the answers that I think are the easiest to say, at least to her, and the most vague.

  “Well, like I don’t know if am doing anything worthwhile with my life. Like I don’t really deserve Simon. Like I totally missed out on knowing my mother. Like I am never going to be truly content.”

  She just nods her head, thinking on what I have said. I am about to minimize one or more of the things, when she turns her head to me.

  “Tell me, Tess. What do you believe about God?”

  I’ve never liked to consider such a question. Most of the time I don’t have to because no one ever poses it to me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, do you believe He exists?”

  The question of the ages hangs between us on the front seat of her Oldsmobile, but even so it’s not so hard for me to answer. I know God exists. I’ve felt His weight for as long as I can remember, before Corinthia, before we moved to Arkansas. I know He is there and it has always bothered me. If He didn’t exist, it would explain a lot of things. A chancy world would naturally provide a life of chance, a life where you can’t truly depend on anything. But I know He’s there.

  “Yes.”

  “What else do you believe? What do you believe He is like?” she continues.

  This question scares more than the first one did. It’s not a simple yes or no question. I actually know what I think about God. But I don’t know how to say it. I am afraid to say it.

  Corinthia must sense this.

  “Just say what’s on your mind, Tess. You know I will not judge you.”

  This surprisingly gives me the courage I need to lay all my cards out on the table; figuratively, of course. Here they are, I almost say audibly to the swirling heavens above me.

  “I think He is…” I search fo
r the right word to replace the kindergarten word that is on my tongue but nothing else comes to mind. “Big,” I say, wincing at sounding like a five-year-old.

  Corinthia just nods her head. “What else?”

  Somewhat more confident I search my mind for the other words that describe how I feel about God. They are there in plain sight to my roving inner eye. They alarm me.

  “Tess, what else?”

  “He is distant,” I say, looking at the road ahead. It sounds like an accusation; the very thing I was afraid of.

  But Corinthia just says, “What else?”

  “He is indifferent,” I continue feeling a little bolder, a little more like the insolent child who yells, ‘You’re not fair!’ at the parent who has just disciplined her.

  “Anything else?”

  “He is… capricious,” This time the word I’ve chosen makes me sad, not afraid, not angry.

  Corinthia is silent for several seconds.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” she says, maybe to me, maybe not. I think I am beginning to understand, too.

  “You mean, now you can understand why God as been avoiding me,” I say.

  But Corinthia looks at me in surprise. Her face breaks into a smile. “Avoiding you?” she says and I can tell she is amused. “My dear Tess, you have it completely backward!”

  I have no idea what she is talking about.

  She reaches across the seat and grabs my hand resting in my lap, glancing at the road and then back at me.

  “He has not been avoiding you,” she says smiling widely.

  I stare dumbfounded as she leans over just a little, all the while watching the road.

  “He has been pursuing you,” she whispers secretively, just like an old pirate might tell another pirate where to find the buried treasure.

  Or like one weary farmer might tell another that the forecast calls for rain.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence as Corinthia wisely lets me digest what she has told me. When we arrive in Jonesboro, I use my cell phone’s navigation feature to find the street where the Penneys lived based on Corinthia’s old phone book. This time the house is a little larger. The flowerbeds are filled with tall tulips and I wonder if perhaps the Penneys simply got an unlisted phone number and still live here. We get out of the car and I rush up the walk to the covered porch. Corinthia is right behind me. I ring the doorbell and wait. I see a portable basketball hoop in the driveway and I ring it again.