The Renewal

by Terri Kraus

  Suddenly the noise from the television ceased. Ava walked into the kitchen with some deliberateness and stood close to her mother. Not very close, but closer to her than to Jack.

  “Do we have any cookies? Or cupcakes? Trevor didn’t bring any cupcakes with his lunch today.”

  Leslie stood and walked to the small pantry. “We have a few shortbread cookies left. You may have two of them.”

  “Can I have four?” Ava asked.

  Jack could see that Leslie wanted to smile at the negotiations but didn’t. “Three.”

  “Three is good.” Ava extended her hand as her mother placed the three small cookies in her palm. “Thanks.”

  One cookie immediately disappeared into Ava’s mouth as she headed out of the kitchen and down the hall to her room.

  Both watched her leave.

  “Such a cute girl,” Jack said as he stood to leave.

  “She is—and the trouble is that she knows it.”

  Jack wanted to say how true that was—to add something about his daughter that might connect him and Leslie—but he didn’t. It had been too long, he told himself. He had terminated the ability to mention her in public. She existed only to him; she couldn’t be shared with others … because of what happened.

  He stood. “I should be going. You have things to do, I’m sure. Thanks so much for the coffee.”

  “Are you sure?” Leslie asked. “The pot’s still half full. I’ll never drink all of it. One more cup?”

  Jack wanted to say yes, because he so badly wanted to spend the afternoon here in Leslie’s kitchen, just talking and being with her. The whole night, in fact. There was something wonderful about how she spoke: her gentleness, the curve of her throat, and the way her eyes half-closed when she laughed. But he knew he couldn’t—or shouldn’t. Jack knew that if he asked, if he turned up the charm, even just a little, he could have a third and fourth cup, and more. He was that certain. But instead of asking for one more refill, he shook his head no.

  Being here, being attracted to Leslie, being very attracted to Leslie, was more than he could deal with this day. “No. I’ll take a rain check. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Leslie said. “That would be nice.”

  There was a tiny note of panic in her voice, he thought … as if she wondered if he somehow knew that this might be her first time with a man since her divorce.

  He heard the door being latched as he walked down the steps to the street. He hurried to his truck, started the engine, flipped the visor down and paused for a long moment, then drove away, a few miles per hour faster than needed, a few miles per hour faster than he wanted.

  Leslie kept her hand, white-knuckled, on the doorjamb a long time until her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. She gulped, drew her shoulders back, ran her hands through her hair, and drew in one last deep breath.

  Okay. Okay. I feel fine. No problem. I’m fine. There’s nothing to be worried about.

  She called out, “Ava, let’s go. Remember? We’re shopping for furniture this afternoon.”

  She waited while her daughter, walking slowly and more carefully than necessary, came out into the living room, holding a picture book on dolphins in her hand.

  “I don’t want to go shopping. I don’t like shopping.”

  Leslie refused to be drawn into the debate.

  “I know, but we’re going. We talked about this yesterday. We need a dresser for your room. We need a chair for the living room. And the whole apartment simply has to have some artwork on the walls.”

  “Like on the refrigerator?”

  “No, sweetie. Like my grown-up posters. We’ll need to get frames for them.”

  “Ohh,” Ava replied, disappointed.

  Five minutes later, the pair was in the minivan heading south on Route 356. Leslie had been told of a Catholic Charities resale shop near Saxonburg, a few miles south of town. Ava really did need a dresser; she had been using five cardboard boxes to hold her assortment of clothing, plus the dresses and sweaters that were hung in the closet. But cardboard boxes were depressing if used as furniture. Leslie was sure that some of her panic was caused by the image of her daughter rummaging through cardboard boxes when she got dressed in the morning.

  A dresser will make things better, she told herself. And it doesn’t have to be a fancy dresser. Just a nice dresser. And a mirror above it. Every little girl deserves a dresser and a mirror—and maybe a little desk or dressing table.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror at her daughter, Leslie realized that Ava probably didn’t care. Cardboard boxes were normal for her now, and until she had friends over, however she stored her clothes would be fine.

  She needs a dresser.

  Leslie navigated the minivan onto the gravel parking lot.

  The place looks nice enough. Almost like a real store.

  Ava unsnapped herself from her car seat and held out her arms for her mom to help her down and out. She reached up and took her mother’s hand. Bells above the shop’s door offered a cheerful little clatter when they walked in.

  “Good afternoon. Glad to see you. Let me know if I can be of any help at all.”

  A woman of about sixty, maybe even a bit older than that, waved from behind a counter.

  “I’d get up, but that takes a while and people don’t want to be bothered when they shop, am I right? The big furniture is in the back room. That’s where it gets delivered, and no one wants to haul it farther than they have to. Clothes are on that side—I guess you can see that. Smaller household things are out here.”

  Leslie kept nodding as the woman spoke.

  “Now for prices. We put a price on everything here. And that’s the price that you pay. The parish priest says some of us ladies are too easy and we’d be giving everything away. That would be me. ‘Take it,’ I’d say. ‘Get it out of here and make use of it.’ But Father Boyd says that’s crazy. Well, maybe he didn’t say ‘crazy,’ but that’s what he meant. He says that we have to make a little money on this place to pay the rent and heat and all that. He says a charity like this takes money to run. I guess he’s right. So the yellow tag on all the furniture has the price written on it. Father Boyd says to discourage any dickering because we’re not allowed to take less than the tag. We keep the tag, and the tags and the money have to be even at the end of the day. And I guess God would be watching if we threw the tags away, now, wouldn’t He? Besides, the prices are really cheap. I bought a great old bed here once and I’m still using it.”

  Ava was staring at the woman, perhaps because of her enthusiastic and animated monologue.

  “And what’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Ava.”

  “Well, that’s a real pretty name. Like Ava Gardner?”

  Ava scrunched up her nose. “I dunno. Is it, Mommy?”

  “No. I just liked the name. Ava Gardner was a little before my time.”

  “Gracious sakes, of course she was. But she was a very beautiful actress. Are you an actress, Ava?”

  Ava shook her head emphatically. “Nope.”

  Leslie spoke up. “Do you know if you have any dressers? Ava needs a dresser for her room.”

  The older woman rubbed her forehead, pursing up her lips into a tight slit. “I think they brought in a whole bedroom set the other day,” she said brightly. “I think it was for a little girl. It’s in the back on the right. All white with pretty knobs and handles. It’s real cute. You yell if you don’t see it. I’ll make my way back there if you don’t.”

  Leslie took Ava’s hand and wound their way through the cluttered room. The back room, nearly twice as large as the front, was crammed with all sorts of odd dressers and tables and chests and chairs and beds and sofas. They passed one chair, and Ava hopped up into it, kicked her feet, and said with some authority. “I like this chair, Mom. It’s all cushy.
”

  Leslie stepped back and looked. The chair, a fully upholstered one, was classic and pretty. The legs may not have been real mahogany, but they were solid and unscarred, the fabric clean, in a very rich medium shade of sage green. The tag read $10.

  “That’s cheap,” Leslie said.

  Ava turned her head to see the tag. “It says ten. I know that number. What’s that squiggly thing?” she asked as she pointed to the tag.

  “That’s a dollar sign.”

  “Is ten dollars a lot?”

  Leslie shook her head. “No. That’s real cheap. I think this would be a great chair for our living room, for by the fireplace, don’t you?”

  Ava nodded with enthusiasm. “Are you going to buy this?” she asked, her feet still dangling and kicking in the air.

  “I think so.”

  From the front of the store came the older woman’s voice. “If you see something you like, tear off the bottom half of the tag. That means it’s yours.”

  “Let’s look around a bit more, Ava. There’s no one else here. I think this chair is safe for now.”

  Ava hopped down and walked calmly through the narrow pathway between the furniture. As they came to the end of the aisle, Leslie caught sight of the white girls’ bedroom set.

  It is pretty, Leslie thought to herself. A double dresser, a small dressing table with a chair and mirror and a bed frame and headboard. It looked well made, almost hand-carved; though Leslie was pretty sure it was not. But it was delicate and definitely girl-like, yet simple. Ava walked over to it and touched the brass handles with some reserve.

  “It’s pretty, Mommy,” she said very softly.

  Leslie was certain it would be too expensive, even at bargain resale shop prices. She imagined a set like this, in a real store, would be close to two thousand dollars, so even a reduced price would be more than she could comfortably afford. Ava gently traced her finger along the scalloped edge of the table and stared at herself in the dainty, child-sized mirror.

  Leslie looked for the tag, not wanting to hope too much to commit to anything. Her chest tightened, as if her heart was conditioned to respond to dashed dreams. Her breath grew a bit shorter, and sweat started to glisten on her forehead. She closed her eyes and willed it all to stop. She breathed in deeply and out slowly.

  The moment passed.

  Ava jumped to the left and pointed to a yellow tag. “There it is, Mommy. It says fifty and the squiggly thing means dollars. Is fifty dollars too much?”

  Leslie was certain that it must have read $500, or that if it was $50, that was for one piece. She looked at the tag. Indeed, the tag read “$50 Set/5 pieces.”

  Leslie looked around quickly. There were no other tags.

  The fifty dollars must be the real cost.

  “Do you like it, Ava?”

  Ava, who had never been the most feminine of little girls, who had never favored lace over blue jeans, who had never yet attempted to put on her mother’s makeup and style her hair, touched the dresser again, smoothed her small hand along the satiny surface, and finally looked back at her mother.

  “It’s real pretty. Like a princess. Like that princess we saw on TV.”

  The bell in the front of the shop sounded.

  Leslie didn’t hesitate. She reached over and tore the yellow tag in two. “Then let’s get this for you.”

  Ava, a child not given to spontaneous acts of affection—it wasn’t that she was unaffectionate, but that her responses were most often considered and thought-out—jumped at her mother and embraced her fiercely. She waited a long moment until she whispered “Thanks” in her mother’s ear.

  When Ava released her mother, she stepped back, looked at everything again, then said calmly, “Will this fit in our car?”

  It was a situation Leslie had not considered. She looked at all the pieces. They could tie the flat ones to the top of the minivan—there was a luggage rack that would hold them. The middle seats could be folded down to make space for the rest.

  “I think so.”

  Ava didn’t take her hands off the dressing table. “I bet Daddy could make it all fit.”

  Ava did not mention her father often. Neither did Leslie, for fear of sounding angry or hurt or saying something unwise.

  “Maybe he could. But Daddy’s not here right now.”

  Ava looked at herself in the small mirror with beveled sides. “I miss our old house.”

  Leslie’s heart ached. “But our new house is nice. Isn’t it? It will be nicer with this furniture, right?”

  Ava sighed. “I guess.”

  Leslie could have let the discussion stop there, but she needed to explain. She had to. What happened wasn’t her fault. Not at all. There weren’t always two sides to every story. Sometimes there was only one. She bent down to Ava and took the child’s hands in hers.

  “We’ll make it all fit, Ava. I know Daddy is not here, and Daddy could have done it. But Daddy had some problems and made his choice with his life. Sometimes men … daddies … just make bad choices. Maybe Daddy doesn’t see it that way, but that’s what happened. Mommy did her best, Ava, she really did. She did everything that Daddy wanted. She cooked and cleaned and tried to do everything Daddy needed. Mommy was there for him. I really, really tried. Then, out of the blue, there was someone else, and Daddy decided he didn’t love me anymore. As if I had that choice. I don’t understand how it all could change so quickly. I did everything he wanted. Anytime. Whatever it was he wanted. I tried.”

  Ava listened and nodded. Yet, even in the middle of this, Leslie realized she was saying too much. Ava had no business knowing what Daddy did or did not do. In fact, Leslie wasn’t even certain Ava knew there was another woman involved in the divorce. Leslie had never mentioned her … until now. But maybe it was time for Ava to hear about it.

  Ava’s face was blank.

  Leslie’s heart rate sped up, unwanted and unexpected. “I’m sorry, Ava. I’m so sorry. It’s okay. Really. We’ll get it all in the van. We’ll make two trips if we have to. It’ll all be okay.”

  She went down on one knee and opened her arms. Ava slowly moved toward her, allowing herself to be hugged. There was a tension, a tightness in her daughter, that Leslie had not felt before. She held her for a long time.

  “I’m not getting a new mommy, am I?” Ava finally asked. “Trevor said his daddy is looking for a new mommy. He says he wants a new mommy, but I don’t think I do.”

  Then Leslie knew she had said too much. She stood up, and by sheer force of will, took Ava’s hand and walked slowly toward the front, stopping to take the tag from the green upholstered chair.

  “Mommy?” Ava said.

  Through pursed lips, Leslie said, “What?”

  “You said picture frames, too. Are you going to buy picture frames?”

  Leslie shook her head. “Another day. The minivan will be filled anyhow. Is that okay?”

  Ava nodded.

  Leslie reached the counter and carefully laid the two tags flat. “It’s fifty dollars for the whole set, right?” she asked, her words compressed.

  “That’s what the tag says. You got a deal on this one. Good for you. Let me call over to the church office. I’ll get the custodian to help load your car. If you ask me, he loves it when I call him. Gets him out of the church. That’s why he always runs over here. And he’s got rope and all those sorts of packing things.”

  Leslie finished writing the check and slowly tore it out of the book.

  “You pull around to the back, by the garage doors, and Freddie will take care of you. Thanks for shopping with us. Enjoy your new bedroom set, Ava.”

  Ava smiled happily and waved as her mother held the door open.

  Amelia Westland, age fourteen years, four months

  Butler Orphan Asylum
/>   Butler County, Pennsylvania

  November 25, 1876

  Catherine considers me a giddy, silly schoolgirl. Perhaps I am. But I have made the acquaintance of a most agreeable young man, who is also residing at this Asylum. His name is Julian Beck. We have sat across the aisle in morning chapel and he glanced at me often, as I did at him. We have spoken on occasion, but for just a few moments, since prolonged association between the boys and girls at the Asylum is not encouraged. He appears to be pious, with a gift of oratory. He is agile and energetic. Catherine says she has heard tell he has been often in need of discipline. But his eyes are of the bluest color I have ever seen, and he has the most perfect of lips and beautiful blond hair, so to me, that is of no regard. I have taken a decided fancy to him, and I suspect his gaze might be enough to make many a woman swoon. His face fills my thoughts and dreams.

  My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O LORD;

  in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.

  —Psalm 5:3

  CHAPTER NINE

  THERE WASN’T MUCH ROOM TO pace in Jack’s small apartment. Five long steps took him from one end to the other. He walked to the windows, stared down at the street for a second, walked to the door, and then walked back. He grabbed at the television remote and snapped the power off. The electronic chatter had gotten on his nerves. He hadn’t really been paying attention to whatever news program was on, but some noise was better than no noise at all—at least until it became aggravating.

  He had finished work early today. Starting at 6:00 a.m., as quietly as possible, he had glued down the last of the countertops, and had put on new outlet covers throughout the apartment; most of the existing covers had been cracked and caked with paint. Starting early allowed him to leave the job site early without feeling guilty. He had a few estimates to do, and he never liked doing them after dinner. He would be too tired to concentrate. Earlier was better.

  But now he felt distracted and disjointed. He wondered if he should head over to the Midlands Building, find some small project to fuss with, maybe tap at Leslie’s door to ask her opinion.