Pickin Clover

by Bobby Hutchinson

  “Big, healthy, about thirty-five. Strong muscles, good physique. Thick blond hair, tanned skin. Handsome.”

  "That’s what did it,” Polly declared. "Mom has a weakness for good-looking men. When’s he starting?”

  "Probably day after tomorrow. Clover should be better by then.”

  “Clover? Who’d name a poor unsuspecting child ‘Clover’?”

  “Her mother, probably. She walked out on them a couple weeks ago, Jerome told me.” Polly shook her head but didn’t comment.

  Michael was pouring them each a glass of wine. The table looked lovely. Polly had set it with her usual eye for color, selecting a plain buttery-yellow cloth with huge patterned blue-and-yellow napkins that she’d sewn. The centerpiece was a low pottery bowl planted with blooming hyacinths in plum and purple and a rich, deep violet that matched the starkly simple dinnerware.

  “Have I seen these plates before?” Michael picked one up to admire it, surprised at its weight.

  "I just got them yesterday. I had them special ordered from Italy. Each is slightly different because the set is handmade. See the gradations in the color?”

  Michael stared at the plate and knew this was the precise moment to tell Polly such extravagances had to end. At least three other full sets of china sat in the tall cupboards lining one entire dining-room wall, china that was seldom used. They rarely entertained, and this was the first dinner the two of than had shared in more than a week.

  “They’re exquisite, don’t you think?” Polly caressed the smooth surface of a plate. “Beautiful things like these give me such pleasure.”

  Michael looked at her, taking in the delicate lines of her lovely face, which her new haircut emphasized; her smile, so poignant a contrast to the sad vulnerability in her eyes, and he just couldn’t say what needed to be said—that they were on the verge of bankruptcy, that she really should pack these blue dishes up and return them to the store because there was a real possibility that he couldn’t pay the bill when it came in.

  Instead, he sipped his wine, took a seat and, without tasting anything, ate the rich vegetable stew, the fresh crusty bread, the delicate endive salad his wife had prepared.

  They sat across from each other at the heavy oak dining table, an Italian tenor’s rich, evocative voice flowing from the sound system. The tastefully decorated room filled with shadows as darkness fell outside the wide windows.

  Polly had grouped candles around the bowl holding the hyacinths and she lit them now. She was wearing a long blue lacy sweater over dark tights, and with the new short hairstyle, she looked like a young girl in the candlelight, a desirable girl he should scoop up in his arms and passionately love. But the weight of the house settled around him like a stone; the awful emptiness of the child’s bedroom at the top of the curving stairway haunted him, the missing place setting on his right, where Susannah had always sat, filled him with pain. She used to wriggle in her chair, her electric energy filling up the room. She’d often spilled her milk on the tablecloth and his trousers, and she’d once laughed so hard and long at one of his silly jokes that she’d choked and vomited her dinner all over the cloth. She’d sometimes rested her small foot on his thigh under the table. And she’d giggled, with that special hitch in her voice, when he teased her.

  “Oh, Daddy, you’re so silly.”

  Blessedly, the telephone rang.

  “Let the machine take it,” Polly urged. But he was already out of his chair. A moment later he stuck his head into the dining room long enough to say, “Sorry, Pol, I’ve got to go to Emerg. One of my patients was in a car accident.”

  She didn’t protest. Just looked at him and nodded, her expression stony.

  Michael felt irritation niggle at him. This was his job, after all; she knew he had no choice when an emergency arose. He found his keys and then went back into the dining room. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Don’t wait up for me.” He bent to kiss her, but she turned her face and his lips grazed her cheek. He shrugged into a jacket and hurried out the door, ashamed of the relief that surged through him. And as he got into the car and drove away, he turned a tape on full and forced his mind to focus only on the urgent needs of the patient waiting at St. Joe’s.

  Two days later, Polly drove slowly up the back alley of Isabelle’s house and parked alongside the ramshackle picket fence that bordered her mother’s property. It was a sunny morning, and she told herself she was there to make peace with Isabelle over the missed dinner invitation, but the truth was, curiosity about Jerome Fox had drawn her. She slid her sunglasses up over her forehead and sat for several moments, watching the young man working in her mother’s backyard.

  He hadn’t noticed her yet, or if he had, he wasn’t paying any attention, and Polly took the opportunity to study him.

  He was a fine physical specimen, just as Michael had suggested. He wasn’t especially tall, but he looked extremely strong, with sharply defined muscles in his arms. His body was lean and tanned. His gray T-shirt was stained at the armpits and down the back with sweat, and his faded, dirty jeans clung to his muscular thighs and hung low on narrow hips. Thick blond hair curled from under the rim of a billed cap, and his features were strong and well defined. He was lifting rotten boards from a pile and tossing them with ease up and over the rim of the dump bin Michael had had delivered.

  Polly slid out of the car and straightened her short denim skirt. “Hi, there. Wow, it looks better around here already,” she called cheerfully. When he turned toward her, she walked over to him and put out her hand, smiling. “I’m Polly Forsythe. How do you do?”

  “Jerome Fox. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Forsythe.” He pulled off his work glove and rubbed it down the side of his pants before he shook her hand. He smiled back at her, his teeth even and very white against his tanned skin. He had brilliant blue eyes.

  “You’re Doc Forsythe’s wife?”

  “I am, yes. And please call me Polly. You have no idea how thrilled I am to see this yard getting cleaned up. It’s a total disaster area.”

  He grinned and nodded. “It’s a mess, all right.”

  She had to laugh at his droll tone. “Your little girl’s feeling better? Michael said she had a virus.”

  “He gave us some stuff. She’s lots better today, no cough or fever or anything. Your husband’s a really good doctor.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. I’ll tell Michael you said so. Well, Mr. Fox, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Just call me Jerome."

  “Okay, Jerome.” She motioned toward the house. “Do you know if my mother’s inside?”

  “Yeah.” He frowned. “Clover’s in there, too. She went in to get a drink a while ago and hasn’t come out yet. Maybe tell her I want her out here with me? I sure don’t want her bugging Mrs. Rafferty.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Polly went up the wooden steps to the kitchen door, careful not to lean on the broken railing. She tapped on the screen door and then opened it.

  “Mom? Hi, it’s me.”

  “I saw you drive up.” Isabelle was seated at the kitchen table, a cigarette between her fingers and a mug of coffee at her elbow. A small, unattractive little girl sat beside her, boosted to table height by several telephone books. In front of the child was a mug of milky coffee, and between her fingers she had a small piece of paper towel rolled up to resemble a cigarette. She was holding it exactly the way Isabelle held hers, and she had her denim covered legs crossed at the knee just the way Isabelle did.

  “This is Clover. She’s Jerome’s kid.” Isabelle gestured at the child and then at the coffeepot.

  “You want some? I just made a pot.”

  Polly went to the cupboard and got a mug, surreptitiously checking to make certain it was clean before she poured coffee into it. Isabelle’s cupboards were often infested with bugs, which bothered Polly a whole lot and her mother not at all. She sat at the table, thinking it was unfortunate Jerome Fox’s daughter hadn’t inherited his good looks.

  Clover was a most
unappealing looking child with her stringy pale hair and watery, narrow eyes. To make up for her critical thoughts, Polly gave the little girl a wide, friendly smile. “Your daddy said he wants you to come outside with him now,” she told her in a kind tone. The girl gave her a suspicious look and didn’t smile back or move an inch from her perch. She put her imitation cigarette to her lips and pretended to take a long drag, then she blew as if exhaling smoke. She even squinted at Polly the exact way Isabelle did when she exhaled.

  It should have been funny, but Polly was disgusted, instead. Her mother’s smoking was something both she and Norah abhorred. They’d tried every ruse to get Isabelle to stop, with no success. Allowing a child to imitate such a dreadful habit was nothing short of criminal in Polly’s estimation.

  “Leave Clover be. She’s not hurting anything.” Isabelle took a drag on her own cigarette and blew the smoke out through her nose in a long stream.

  Irritated, Polly waved a hand in front of her to deflect it. “This smoke’s hurting her, Mom. She’s been sick and it’s a lot healthier for her to be outside than to sit in here inhaling this poison. You know the studies all say that second hand smoke is just as bad for you as smoking yourself, and children are particularly vulnerable.”

  Why did her mother always bring out her prissy, preachy side? Polly wondered.

  “Oh, pooh, you can’t believe everything you hear. I’ve got all the windows open. Don’t get your shirttail in a knot.” Isabelle tapped ash into the ashtray defiantly and Clover instantly copied her.

  Isabelle laughed. “Susie used to pretend to smoke like me, too, when she was small, remember?”

  Of course Polly remembered. She’d spent hours talking to Susannah about smoking, telling her how dangerous the habit was, trying her best to walk the fine line between not castigating her own mother while still discouraging her daughter from adopting Isabelle’s filthy habit.

  And why had Isabelle insisted always on calling her granddaughter “Susie”? Her name is Susannah, Polly had said more times than she could count, to no avail. And it irked her now just the way it always had.

  Well, this was typical, Polly thought with disgust. She couldn’t be around her mother for two seconds without either lecturing or wanting to scream.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get your message about Norah’s birthday dinner, Mom,” she forced herself to say. “Michael was out of town, and I wasn’t home. I spent the afternoon shopping.”

  “No harm done, I suppose.” Isabelle eyed Polly speculatively. “Although how anyone can spend an entire afternoon going from store to store is beyond me. I see you got your hair cut.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It takes some getting used to. You haven’t had it short like that since you were a teenager. And those streaks are different.”

  Why couldn’t her mother just say, for once, that she looked nice? Polly mused in despair. And why should it matter so much? “I needed a change.” Polly sipped the strong coffee and tried to swallow, along with the brew, the disturbing emotions her mother roused in her.

  Clover suddenly picked up her mug and drank with great gulping sounds; then, still holding her make-believe cigarette, she wriggled down from the chair and headed out the door. It slammed behind her.

  “She’s a queer little duck,” Isabelle remarked. “Doesn’t smile much. Did the mother just walk out on them, or what? She said her mommy was gone and she and her daddy got along fine.”

  This, at least, was safer ground. Polly nodded. “Apparently she did. A couple weeks ago, Michael said.”

  “Some women should never be blessed with kids,” Isabelle pronounced self-righteously. “Why, any animal’s a better mother than that.”

  Polly figured she’d heard her mother say the same thing a million times over the years. Her reaction was always exactly what she felt now: she wanted to confront Isabelle about her lack of mothering, point out that she had been anything but perfect, dragging her small daughters all over the province, subjecting them to the constant stress of new schools in whatever town Isabelle landed them in. Isabelle had never put her daughters first in her life, not really, Polly raged inwardly. She saw only her own needs, her own desires, her own passions, and to hell with her children.

  “Michael looked beat last night. He’s working too hard. You oughta make him take some time off. The two of you should go to Hawaii or something. God knows you can afford it,” Isabelle said.

  Again, Polly felt herself having to squelch the automatically angry response her mother’s words evoked in her. “Michael enjoys working hard. I couldn’t get him to take time off if I tried.” And right now the idea of going on a vacation with her husband terrified Polly.

  If they spent long hours in each other’s company, the abyss at the center of their marriage might no longer be a place they could avoid.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Polly couldn’t stand sitting in her mother’s messy kitchen another moment, having Isabelle lecture her on things the woman knew nothing about. She picked up her cup and carried it to the sink, rinsed it under the hot tap, set it on the cluttered drain board.

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom. Michael said it might be a good idea to pay Jerome at the end of each day. He probably needs the money.” She dug in her handbag and pulled out a checkbook. “Just figure out the hours and fill in the amount.” She printed “Jerome Fox” on the check, and then scribbled her signature at the bottom of it.

  “I don’t mind Michael paying for the yard cleaning, it was his idea. But I want to pay for the painting myself,” Isabelle commented as Polly put the check on the table in front of her.

  Polly stared at her. “What painting?”

  “The outside of the house, silly. Now, don’t look so surprised.” It was obvious Isabelle was delighted at Polly’s shocked reaction. “I decided this morning that the place needs freshening up, and if that young man wants the job, I’m going to go down and choose paint this afternoon.”

  Polly was thunderstruck. The appearance of the house had been a thorn in her side for years, and she’d nagged and all but begged Isabelle to attend to it.

  “What’s made you decide to paint all of a sudden?”

  “It’s spring. As long as Jerome’s here anyhow, I might as well take advantage of him.”

  Isabelle’s answer only reaffirmed for Polly how impetuous her mother was. Polly decided not to comment, in case Isabelle changed her mind. But if she was going this far, there was a faint possibility Isabelle might agree to a general spring housecleaning, a sorting through of the debris that littered every comer of the old house. And the basement. Polly shuddered just thinking about the basement. Play it cool and casual so you don’t spook her, Polly.

  “Painting’s a great idea, Mom.” She couldn’t wait to call Norah. Her sister was not going to believe this. “What color are you thinking of?”

  “Blue. Or maybe turquoise.”

  Lordie. Isabelle was actually capable of turquoise. Polly had to head her off at the pass. “What about white? With green shutters and trim?” She held her breath. The last thing she wanted was to discourage Isabelle.

  “You think white?” Isabelle considered it, frowning, then she shook her head and Polly’s heart sank.

  “White’s boring. White’s got no pizazz. Maybe painting’s not such a good idea after all. It’s liable to run into a lot of money, and it would take weeks with one person doing it. Cost me a fortune if he charges by the hour. Besides, I dunno if I could stand somebody around that long.”

  Polly felt herself beginning to panic. Isabelle couldn’t change her mind now; she just couldn’t. Inspiration struck. “You pay for the paint and let Norah and I go together on the labor. It could be your Mother’s Day gift.”

  Isabelle prided herself on practicality, and Polly could see that this idea appealed. But then Isabelle shook her head again. “It’s having somebody hanging around morning noon and night for weeks and weeks that I’m not sure about. I like my privacy.”

  P
olly racked her brain for a solution, and the answer sprang into her head, fully formed.

  "Look, Mom, I’ll come over and help Jerome paint. I enjoy painting, and we’d get it done in half the time.” Excitement filled her as she thought about it. Of course this was exactly the right thing to do.

  She felt giddy anticipation at the idea of having an actual job, something she had to climb out of bed for in the morning. For so long now, she’d been filling in time, getting through the days. This would provide some purpose to her life, at least for a while.

  But Isabelle was shaking her head yet again. “Now, Polly, that’s crazy. You’re always so busy. You know you’re never home.”

  The criticism was a familiar one, and it had always made Polly angry and defensive. This time she was simply honest. “I don’t wanna be home, Mom. Being home reminds me of Susannah, and I can’t stand it.” The vehement words tumbled out before Polly could stop them, and she tensed, waiting for Isabelle to reprimand her, remind her what a luxurious home she had and how grateful she ought to be to Michael for providing it.

  But Isabelle took a noisy gulp of her coffee and tilted her head to one side. “So you think white, huh? Well, you always were the artistic one. It might look okay at that, white with a dark-green trim.”

  Polly gaped at her mother. Were there really times when Isabelle could be reasonable?

  “So you want to go ahead with it?”

  Isabelle took another slurp of coffee and nodded. “I just said so, didn’t I? Before we go any further, though, let’s go outside and talk to Jerome, see if he even wants the job. And maybe I can talk him into a flat fee. That would save you girls some money.”

  Jerome absolutely wanted the job, and he was perfectly agreeable to a fair amount and to having Polly work with him. The yard should be finished sometime the following afternoon, he estimated. He had several loads to take to the dump. Then he and Polly could begin painting the house.

  They eagerly discussed it. They’d rent scaffolding and they’d have to scrape off the worst of the old paint, but it wouldn’t be a bad job at all.