Someday Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Of course. It would affect her moods. It never crossed my mind. I just don’t think about those things.”

  “Exactly. And Tom and I are kind of hoping that you and Angela can cut her a little slack when she gets on a toot.”

  Judith nodded. “Certainly. I’ll talk to Angela privately.”

  “Three strong women who are still virtual strangers, all under one roof, and in menopause or probably approaching it.” Phillip sniggered, more like a snort. “This could get interesting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Angela awoke, stretched, seriously considered turning over and going back to sleep, but got up anyway, did her morning bathroom thing, and dressed for hot weather. Ever hopeful. She wanted summer to come in and get it over with.

  When her phone sang, she took it out on the deck and glanced at the caller ID as she sank onto the cushioned lounger. “Hi, Charles, good to hear from you.”

  “I was beginning to think you fell off the continent or something. You do know the phone reception goes both ways.”

  “I’m sorry. I did e-mail you, though.”

  “What about the texts I sent?”

  She flinched. “I’ve not been looking at texts because I had one from your dad and didn’t want to see his name again.”

  “He was just checking to make sure you were all right.”

  “He called you?” Usually she was the one to maintain contact with their children.

  “I know, shocked me, too. Even more so when he sounded concerned about you.”

  “Really.” She heaved a sigh. “Can we talk about something else, like when are you coming to visit? Lynn and her boys both asked when, too.”

  “Her boys? Mother.”

  “They are half my age, and I wiped your butt. Boys. And you and Gwynnie are still my kids, so what can I say?” She stared out across the lake, immediately feeling a sense of peace start at her toes and blanket her all the way up. She could hear laughter from the other side of the house. What were they doing crossed her mind but not urgently enough to make her move.

  “Mom?”

  “Sorry. It’s easy to just sit here and stare out at this lake; it changes all the time, like the clouds overhead.”

  “I always told you it was a beautiful spot. One reason I was so pleased you were moving there. So, did you find a job?”

  “No, but I am volunteering at the library. Charles, I really enjoy it. Reminds me of all those years in the library at your school. By the time the two of you got through school, they were beginning to think I would be a fixture.”

  “Glad to hear that. Mom, you sound so much better, I can’t believe it. You like living there?”

  “Like is far too small a word for it. Took me a while; all I wanted to do was sleep and forget.”

  “Serious depression, I was afraid of that.”

  “Not surprising I guess. But between Lynn and Judith and this place, I’m coping better.” She paused to watch an eagle glide on the thermals over the sky-blue lake.

  “Talking with you makes me want to come there, but right now I can’t take the time off, and our budget doesn’t include airfare to Fargo, North Dakota.”

  “Wish I had the air miles to give you, but those were on the credit card your dad took. You might ask him.” She paused. “Whoops, they’re calling me; I better go.” She tapped her phone closed and slipped it in her pocket as she walked around to the back.

  “We need a picture!” Judith handed Angela a small silver digital camera.

  “Of course!” She counted the chickens. Six. “How did you get the rooster back in?”

  “Lynn’s idea. Chased four hens into the coop and left the fifth out, squawking to get back together with her soul mates. The rooster came down to try to fix the situation, and we shooed him in with the rest at dusk last evening.” Judith waved toward the top of the pen. “Phillip and Tom are going to lace netting into the top of the pen this evening. To discourage gate-crashers and hawks from getting in over the top.”

  Judith probably did not realize that Angela was a pretty darn good photographer. She not only set houses she listed, but photographed them to best advantage. She positioned the ladies carefully—“Move left a foot, Lynn. Judith, stand tall. I need you to block that dead branch.” She fired off several from different angles, then worked four of the six chickens into a picture of Judith stooping low.

  Already that morning Judith had been to the feedstore. She had two kinds of chicken feed and a mineral block of some sort. Did chickens really need all this, or had the salesmen at Miller’s Feed seen her coming, you might say? And the boys (Angela loved that—grown men, fathers and lovers, but still boys, like her Charles) had already plugged Houdini’s escape routes.

  Angela sincerely hoped Judith would decide to paint the coop after three, when she had to go to the library. She really did not want to paint, although she would if she must. The three of them set up the chicken feed in two plastic bins at the back of Judith’s garage bay. They stowed the sawdust bag in the corner. Mrs. Franklin’s feed trough and waterer went into the other corner, backups in case they were needed. This hobby, if one could call it that, was accumulating quite a bit of stuff already.

  Angela felt a wee little twinge of envy. Judith had a good thing going; all Angela had was a record of sleeping late.

  She went to her room and pulled down her e-mail. Three from the kids. Two from Jack. She marked those two as spam. Five in reference to real estate. She realized her name was still out there on business cards and ads and no way to get it off.

  Back in the kitchen, the three poured iced tea and all wandered out to the porch deck, Angela’s favorite place to be.

  Lynn sat back with a contented sigh. “I never get tired of this.”

  “Thank you for sharing it.” Judith raised her tea glass, like a toast.

  “Yes. It is so peaceful. I guess I really needed peace.” Angela sipped.

  “I love it no matter what season,” Lynn continued. “Snow is beautiful. And a fierce storm viewed from right inside those windows…Wait until you see it.”

  “More than that thunderstorm that sent Homer into a panic?” Judith patted the dog, who was stretched out beside her.

  “That was only a baby one.” Miss Minerva jumped up on Lynn’s belly. “Ugh, you’re heavy.” But she rubbed and patted the cat until the purr motor rumbled into song.

  She looked toward Judith. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. What I was thinking when I scheduled the first class for eight a.m. is beyond me, other than it was the only way I could get it. Their summer session schedule is limited and I was registering late.”

  “What is that class? I forget,” Angela asked.

  “Precalculus. Sometimes I wonder if getting a tutor would be a good idea. Basic math is fine for me, but this is higher stuff.”

  Angela shuddered. A precursor for calculus before 8:00 a.m. “And you’re taking what online?”

  “Social studies. It’s needed for anthropology and archaeology.”

  Lynn nodded. “Good to get as many general credits as you can here. Lot cheaper than the university in Duluth. You know, Tommy is a math whiz. I’m sure he’d be glad to help you.”

  They chatted on, and Angela only half listened. She was thinking about this gang of three who were trying to live in harmony when they were all so very different. And with different goals. Judith was going back to school. Lynn was helping her late husband’s business continue onward and upward. And what was Angela doing? Distancing herself from a handsome, totally egocentric man who had no conscience or ethics.

  Just thinking about it made her sad all over again.

  Her first day of school. Good grief, you’d think she was seven years old.

  Judith drove to the Detroit Lakes Community College campus early. She had nothing really in the way of supplies, so she walked to the campus bookstore. It was not only open but busy already. Mostly the customers were students grabbing packa
ged snacks and juice boxes—breakfasts, no doubt.

  They sold backpacks. She chose an inexpensive one large enough to haul her laptop around in. She hadn’t thought to bring her laptop along today. Hers was a few years old; perhaps she’d be wise to buy a new one. Was there a place in Detroit Lakes or would she have to go to Fargo?

  A pack of pencils, a pack of pens, a notebook, she paused. And picked up an inexpensive little eight-color box of crayons. Always on the first day of grade school she had started out with a new box of crayons. Smiling, she added that to her trove. Plus an appointment book. She would no doubt think of other things she’d need, so she could stop back here after class.

  Still a little early, she found her classroom and stepped inside. And froze. This was not the lecture room of her old college days. She had just walked into an alien planet.

  The room was wedge shaped and so big it probably made its own weather. A stage and lectern down front were no doubt where the instructor would be. The floor rose up toward the back at a steep rake, with four curved tiers of counters instead of desktops. Behind the counters were arranged at least fifty chairs at each tier; the room sat two hundred!

  Other students were coming in now, young men and women in clothing much more casual than what Judith had ever worn to class. With a skirt and modest top, she was way overdressed.

  Where should she sit? Off to the side, certainly. She chose a chair and settled into it cautiously. Here at her desk, and at each of the others, a number pad shaped like a television remote was anchored down. She was just going to have to swallow her pride and start asking questions.

  A pretty girl with brown hair done up in a French roll sat two seats away.

  “Excuse me?” Judith said to her.

  She turned and smiled with amazingly white teeth.

  “I have never been in a lecture hall like this one. What is this thing?” And she pointed to the TV remote.

  “Oh. Sure. Most rooms have these now. Let’s say the prof announces a pop quiz. First you punch in your number, like this.” She demonstrated with her own. “And then when she puts the question up on the screen, you punch the answer. The little screen there will show you your score.”

  Judith stared. This was surreal. “My number?”

  “Where is your schedule sheet?”

  Judith dug it out of her purse.

  The young woman pointed. “This number here. That’s how you will be identified in everything you do.”

  Judith wagged her head, reminding her mouth to stay closed. “Thank you very much. My name is Judith.”

  “Tracy. Hi.”

  The instructor appeared, an older woman in black slacks, a blue shirt, and dark blazer. She looked quite professorial. Someone asked her a question. She answered, then talked to someone else. Finally she stepped behind the lectern, pushed a button, and a huge screen descended until it covered the wall at the back of the stage.

  The woman fingered a keyboard and looked up at the ceiling.

  Judith looked up where she was looking; a slide projector was bracketed to the ceiling, pointed at the stage. A little green light came on and the screen lit up with a blue light. A moment later, the professor’s first slide appeared, filling the screen—the course name and number, PRECALCULUS 1114, and her name.

  “Let’s see how much you people remember, and I’ll know where we need to review. Here’s the first question; factor this quadratic equation and identify which of the three possible answers is correct.”

  Factor…X squared plus three X…factor! Judith whispered harshly, “My number pad won’t work!”

  Tracy smiled. “You have to put your number in first, so it identifies you.”

  “Oh. Right.” She did that. Now it worked, but she had no idea which was the correct set of factors. She hit an answer at random, because already the next question was on the screen. Something about three exclamation points. That was three factorial, but Judith had forgotten how to use it.

  She bumbled, she stumbled. Wait, she knew that one! But not the next. Ten questions in all. Her score popped up. Two correct out of ten. She had walked into the room with such high hopes, so much confidence.

  The hope and the confidence were gone. Crushed. She was never going to pass this course, never.

  Why, oh why, did she ever think she could be an archaeologist?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I use your sewing machine? Mine is in the storage unit.” Angela was poking her head in the door.

  Lynn looked away from the screen with a spreadsheet on it. “Not at all. If you need a lesson on it, give a holler.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bug you again if I have a question.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Patch the pants I ripped working in the flower bed. That clematis trellis just reached out and grabbed me.”

  A little motherhood warning bell went off in Lynn’s head. “Just the pants or you, too?”

  “Uninjured, but thanks for caring. Sorry to interrupt; I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  “You realize I’d rather do anything than enter data on a spreadsheet?” She glared at the stack of invoices beside her keyboard.

  Angela stepped inside and leaned against the jamb. “If you’d like help, I’ll be glad to. The real estate business would sink into the ocean without spreadsheets and meaningless data. I’m pretty good with mortgaging and finance, but bookkeeping, too. In college I actually considered bookkeeping as a career.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. You have a degree, right?”

  “Liberal arts, and you know what that’ll get you?”

  Lynn shrugged.

  “You learn to say, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ I got married instead. I’m off to the kitchen seeking sustenance. Can I get you anything?”

  “Thank you, no.” Lynn went back to her screen. With all the garden work and now when fishing was getting better, she hated to spend daylight hours in her office. So she worked nights.

  So did Judith, apparently. She was holed up in her room studying. No, she wasn’t. She was standing at the door in the spot Angela had just left.

  Lynn smiled at her. “How is it going?”

  “College in midlife is absolutely wonderful for masochists. I may be caught up for the moment. Going to go check on the chickens. You writing the great American novel?”

  Lynn waved carelessly toward the monitor. “I hate spreadsheets.”

  “I did all the bookkeeping for Rutherford House. I can do that if you like.”

  Lynn spun her chair around. “You two are too much. Angela just said she has experience, too. I just hate to take up your time.”

  “I’m caught up for now. I’ll be back in a minute.” She paused. “I’m taking Homer with me.”

  I’d rather be out there shutting the chicken door, sitting with Homer and studying the stars, the lake. Anything but here. She turned her chair back around. Good thing her chair faced a blank wall instead of a window. Four more entries. It looked like the pile was multiplying each time she flipped one sheet over. She heard toenails on the hardwood floors and Homer bounded back into the room. Sedate was not part of his makeup; when he moved, he moved, when he was tired, he crashed. Oh, to be like that dog.

  Front feet up on her thigh, he looked at the computer screen, sniffed the keyboard, and drooled on her hand. “Thanks, buddy, at least you missed the keyboard.” She rubbed his ears and neck, then commanded, “Down.” His reproachful look was masterful, as only bassets have conquered. Slowly his feet slid off her leg and he dropped to the floor. “Good boy.” She petted him again. He whipped his head around as Judith walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee.

  Lynn raised her eyebrows. “I hope this is decaf.”

  “It is. I used to drink the leaded stuff right up to bedtime, but not any longer if I want to fall asleep right away, not hours later.”

  Lynn scooted some papers off the oak coasters one of her sons had made from
a branch off one of their trees when he was in high school woodshop. She set the mug there. “Are you serious about helping?”

  “Why not? I hear the sewing machine humming, and I was just going to read for a while or see what’s on TV. You sort them and I’ll enter them.”

  Lynn gave her the chair and pulled up a stool to sit on. To her surprise and delight, they whipped through the pile in a matter of minutes.

  “Any more?” Judith asked.

  “You are fast on that thing.” Lynn glanced around the desk. “I don’t think so. I have names to enter in the database for our newsletter.”

  “You send out a newsletter?” Judith looked surprised. “I used to do that for the Rutherford House, but when caring for my father grew so much more detailed, I quit.”

  “We make it newsy, family-style. I’ll put a picture of Homer in it and maybe the chickens. Phillip and Tommy put in quotes, we include thank-yous from our clients. That kind of thing. We send some little promo item with the Christmas letter.”

  “You are amazing.”

  “No, just practical. We need all the business we can find. We put a bid on the plumbing for a small housing development going in at the other end of the lake. Ten houses or so. We get that, and we’ll have to put on more help.”

  Again they exchanged chairs. Judith sank to the floor and crossed her legs. Homer immediately came over and, front feet on her legs, gave her his pleading no one pets me look, then rolled over for a belly rub.

  Lynn snickered. “He sure has your number.”

  Judith gave her an arched-eyebrows look. “Just me?”

  A few minutes later, Lynn rocked her chair back and stretched her arms over her head. “I can’t believe I am done with those things. I always dread it.”

  “Is that pile to be filed?” Judith indicated a stack of papers with a brick on them. “Alphabetized?”