by Terri Kraus
The man slowly made his way down the ladder, set the drill on the ladder shelf, hitched his tool belt, walked to the front doors, and unlocked one.
The attractive, well-dressed man extended his hand as if he were in a receiving line at a wedding.
“I’m Frank Adams. This is Alice,” he said with a tilt of his head backward. “We stopped at the bank earlier because … well, we wanted to buy this place. And now that we’ve learned that it’s already been sold, we are most interested in renting out the first floor. Do you know if the owner is around, or if she has already rented the space?”
Jack, too nauseated to be too surprised, took Frank’s hand and, surprised at his powerful grip, replied, “No, I don’t think she’s rented it. I don’t think she’s been actively advertising it yet.”
The equally well-dressed and attractive woman, still standing outside, gave out a little, happy yelp. “I knew it! I could tell. This place told me ‘I’m not rented!’”
Jack couldn’t help but smile, even though it hurt to do so. “Come on in,” he offered. “The owner is upstairs, I think, but I’m sure it would be all right if you looked around a bit.”
Alice came in, like a breeze, Jack thought, and moved through the open space, with her arms partly extended, as if floating. She twirled around again. “Everything is simply perfect. Just ideal.”
Jack gently tapped at the door at the top of the stairs.
“Her car is down on the street. That almost always means she’s at home.”
The three of them waited, silently, on the landing outside Leslie’s apartment door. Jack leaned in closer.
“I don’t hear anything. She might have walked over to her daughter’s school. It’s only a few blocks away.”
Frank sort of issued a vague “harrumph,” but Alice didn’t seem to be upset in the least.
“Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Kenyon. If it’s not rented, I’m sure we’ll be able to come to terms with Mrs. Ruskin. From what you’ve told us, she seems like a perfectly marvelous person. Now … let’s go back downstairs. I want to talk to you about what we want to do to the space. Maybe you can give us a quote on the work.”
Despite the pounding at his temples, Jack smiled. It was turning out to be a fine, fine day—in spite of everything.
Leslie heard the tapping but didn’t move from her bed. She heard the second set of tapping—louder, a little more insistent—and still remained immobile.
It will go away. It will go away.
The tapping did stop, and Leslie resumed a more normal breathing pattern. She knew she couldn’t yet summon the power to stand and walk, unassisted, all the way to the apartment door and converse with whoever was doing the tapping.
After a long moment, she drew up the courage to roll onto her back. From there, she knew from experience, it was easier to sit upright, and from sitting, she would then be able to maneuver to putting her feet on the floor. And then it would be an almost simple matter to stand and eventually make her way to the door of her bedroom.
At least that is what she hoped the transition would be like.
She had yet to experience a full-blown attack here in her new home. In Greensburg, in the big home she once lived in, she knew the process. There, if the pressure grew too great, and too suddenly, she could retreat and eventually find her way back. But here, in Butler, everything was new, and she was not certain. Even that thought, that uncertainty, caused her chest to tighten.
But it slipped away, almost quickly, and that gave her a glimmer of hope.
She forced herself to sit up. That, in itself, was a victory. Now, it was only a matter of time.
But why did this happen now? Why are they coming back? If he finds out … if I start doing this all over again … he’ll take her for sure. He will. He might even be watching me now.
She bunched a handful of bedspread in each hand, tightly, her knuckles almost white. She fought it, fought the beast inside of her, just like she had always fought it. And after some time, though she could not be certain how long, her hands relaxed and she opened her eyes again.
She didn’t want to look at the clock, but she did. She took in a breath of relief. She had two hours until she would need to leave the apartment and meet Ava at school.
Two hours. That will be long enough. I can do that. I know I can.
She surprised herself by pivoting on the bed so her feet touched the floor.
I can do this. I will.
She must have been a dancer, or is a dancer, Jack thought as he watched Alice glide about the open space.
“This is all so what I imagined,” she was saying.
Frank grew serious. He started to measure the space by stepping one elegantly shoed foot in front of the other.
“It’s eighty-five feet,” Jack said. “And fifty wide. Plus the back section. Good-sized restrooms, plus a storage area, I think, which we can’t get into until we find a key.”
Frank stopped midstep. “Big space,” he said with some degree of finality.
Jack, had he not been almost sick most of the morning, would not have been so direct. “What are you planning to do? I mean … have you done it before? Whatever it is.”
Alice’s laughter trilled through the open space. “Why of course we have. Why would we want to do it again if we hadn’t already done it? You, Jack, for a contractor, ask quite silly questions.”
Frank, his hands on his hips, like a captain on a ship, replied for Alice.
“In Pittsburgh—Shadyside to be exact—Alice and I built and operated the most wonderful little restaurant-slash-coffee-shop-slash-bookstore-slash-gift-shop in an old renewed building. It was such a fun thing to do. And most successful. We sold it last year for a huge profit, took a few months off to travel through Europe. And now we’re back. In the city of my birth. Alice was born in Saxonburg—if you can imagine. And we want to do it again.”
Jack remained confused.
“No sense in explaining it all,” Alice said. “We will just have to do it. Then he’ll understand.”
Jack waited a moment. “But … in Butler?”
Frank shrugged. “It’s a stretch, I know. But it will work. We know it. The concept will work fine. We’re from Butler, after all. And we think Butler is ready.”
Alice stood in one of the window arches.
“Have you ever worked on a restaurant-coffee-shop-bookstore-gift-shop before, Mr. Kenyon?”
Jack blinked his eyes. “No … but I could.…”
At the end of their meeting, such as it was, Jack watched the pair of them exit and walk toward downtown Butler. He had his third job, all but assured, and this project promised to be big, in a small sort of way, and had the potential to be most lucrative for the time invested, with good exposure and publicity. Walls, lighting, kitchen, restrooms, display area, storage, built-in seating, architectural enhancements—a bit of everything. And most of it Jack could handle on his own.
What was intriguing was that the Adamses didn’t seem like the sort of folk who would argue over a few dollars. Jack could bid the job, not taking advantage of them, but not paring his costs down to the bone.
He opened a bottle of water he had brought with him. He was always thirsty after the sort of night he’d had the night before, when the alcohol burned off and called for more liquid. He sat in the archway, framed by rough-hewn bricks, feeling the afternoon sun warm his shoulders.
He felt good, or at least better, than he had all day.
Maybe last night was just an accident. I mean, I don’t really want to start going to any meetings again. Everybody can slip up once in a while. I’m human. We all make a mistake now and then.
He sipped at the water and watched the street.
And things are going well now. Things are going good. Nothing to be worried about. I’ll be fine. I�
�ll be able to handle this. I’m sure of that.
Amelia Westland, age fifteen years, six months
Town of Butler, Pennsylvania
January 17, 1878
I am now in the employ of Dr. Richard Barry, Butler’s most respected physician and surgeon, and his wife, Louisa. The Headmaster looked in favor upon my request, and because of my strong penmanship and academic standing, he allowed me to interview with Dr. Barry, and soon thereafter arrangements were made for my transference to his residence on Walnut Street. I am one of four servants at the good doctor’s home, the youngest by far, but the only one with the ability to read and write and cipher with facility. The other two women servants, the Misses Burnett and Tollifer, share a small room on the third floor; the head butler, Mr. Sparks, has quarters above the stables; and I have a pleasant and commodious room with an agreeable bed and dresser in the attic of this fine house. It is warm and dry, and the food here, compared to that at the Asylum, is of outstanding quality and quantity.
Catherine wept for a fortnight prior to my departure from the Asylum, and I could provide her no solace. Perhaps in future I can suggest a place for her in the good doctor’s home, when she is of proper age.
Owing to my skills with the pen and with numbers and correctness of my spelling, the doctor requested that I assist him with correspondence to patients, and to other physicians throughout Penna. On some occasions, I sit with him as he administers treatment to patients, and scribe his spoken notations onto charts. Though I am unsettled by the sights, I have been in observance of some of his medical procedures. Mrs. Barry, a beautiful but slight woman, retreats to the furthest reaches of this house when she hears a patient cry out in pain. Perhaps from my childhood on the farm, such is not as disturbing to me. Mrs. Barry treats us well, and seems to have taken a singular liking to me. She will oft instruct me as to how to comport myself in a more ladylike fashion. She has fine dresses from London and New York, but there is a haunted look in her eyes—as if the presence of the sick and ill might prove too great a strain for her most delicate constitution. I am sometimes called to help with her correspondence and diverse other things as well, as she wearies easily.
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
—Ecclesiastes 3:1
CHAPTER TWELVE
LESLIE STOOD OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL, the sun dappling the sidewalk and playground. She was early this afternoon, a full quarter hour before school was out, hoping that being early would make it up to Ava for being late the day before.
Where were you, Mom?! I was all alone out here.
Leslie knew she could not tell her daughter that she was barely able to stand erect without fainting yesterday, let alone be exactly on time.
And Leslie assured herself that Ava had not been alone. There were a few students remaining on the playground when she had arrived, and there was always a teacher watching, making sure that every child would be matched up with a parent by 3:00. A child on the playground later than that would be ushered into the office and the secretary would call their home.
Leslie insisted that it had been at least twenty minutes before three when she had arrived, and Ava insisted that even though she couldn’t tell time yet, it had been much later than that.
Today, Leslie checked her watch a dozen times during the afternoon, leaving the apartment at 2:05, to make sure she was outside well before the final bell sounded.
Ava came out of her classroom slowly, with a wary eye, and even though she saw her mother, she did not run to meet her like she had before. She strolled, as slowly and deliberately as a kindergarten student can stroll, and dropped her backpack at her mother’s feet.
“Trevor wants to play with me. Wait here,” she said, her words curt and final.
Leslie took the punishment without comment.
Okay, I was late … almost … yesterday. She has a right to be worried, or a little angry.
They both were well aware of what had happened in the past and Leslie wanted to assure her young daughter that being late one time was not the start of a downward spiral, a repetition of what was before.
Leslie picked up the backpack and hefted one of its straps up to her shoulder. It was surprising heavy.
They must have visited the library today.
Ava made a habit of selecting the maximum number of books allowed (five) and she worked under the assumption that a bigger book was a better book.
The door of the kindergarten opened, and a student shot out as if propelled by an unseen force, followed by Mrs. DiGiulio, shaking her head in mock surprise. She must have spotted Leslie in the shadows and waved to her, inviting her to come closer.
Something about a grade school teacher that makes you obey, Leslie thought as she walked closer. A few feet away, Mrs. DiGiulio used the whistle that was around her neck.
Every student on the playground stopped and turned.
“Well trained,” Mrs. DiGiulio said under her breath, then shouted, “Ava Ruskin! Your mother will be in the classroom with me. Do you understand?”
Ava shouted out a “Yes!” almost like a little three-foot-tall Marine.
“Come on inside, Mrs. Ruskin. If you have a minute, that is.”
“I do. I was going to let Ava play for a while.”
Once inside, the teacher said, “Sit down. Take the big person’s seat. Perching on these small chairs is for the small and the limber—and I am no longer part of either group.”
Mrs. DiGiulio fussed with a pot on the counter behind her desk. “Would you like some tea? I just made a pot for myself, and I always make too much. It’s my treat at the end of the day.”
Leslie wondered if there were more tea drinkers in Butler than in Greensburg. She never drank tea in Greensburg, and here, it seemed as if tea lovers surrounded her.
“Sure. That would be nice.”
The teacher poured out two cups and handed one to Leslie.
“I already put sugar in the pot. And if caffeine bothers you, don’t take more than a few sips. I buy this from a little coffee shop in Pittsburgh. It has the most curious mix of things, and they say this tea brews to twice the kick as Lipton’s.”
Mrs. DiGiulio swirled her tea, almost spilling it, and sat down at her desk. “Mrs. Ruskin, being a kindergarten teacher can sometimes be a handicap. I find that I have much less tact than other people. Children don’t respond to tact, or veiled comments, and adults who are overly polite—or obtuse. Kindness, yes. Calmness, yes. But tact … well, they get confused. They would much rather get to the point and deal with it. I’ve been a kindergarten teacher for nearly thirty years, so forgive me if I am too direct.”
Leslie waved her hand, as if dismissing any concerns Mrs. DiGiulio might have—even if her confession brought a certain tightness to Leslie’s chest. The kind she’d feel before her husband, or rather her ex-husband, in one of his cycles, would start his litany of all the things she had done wrong during the day, or week, or month, or year, and when she’d only be able to listen and never defend nor explain. Yet she smiled as bravely as she could, hoping Mrs. DiGiulio wouldn’t start telling her what a bad parent she was, or what a bad job she had done raising little Ava.
“Do you feel all right, Mrs. Ruskin?”
Leslie felt a shimmer, like the ground quivering, just a bit. That is how her husband often started, by asking if she felt okay, if she felt normal, and then proceeded to tell her how foolish she was for thinking that she was normal and that she was far from normal and that normal wives and normal mothers do not go into a panic for running out of orange juice in the morning, although it was really obvious that she should have gone to the store the day before, or even gotten up a little early to run to the convenience store around the corner—even if they did charge too much, and a normal housewife would have planned ahead.
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br /> Leslie corralled her thoughts and attempted to smile. “I’m feeling fine, Mrs. DiGiulio … why do you ask?”
She’d never have asked her ex-husband anything like that, unless she wanted to have a full evening’s worth of being told exactly what was the matter with her.
Mrs. DiGiulio looked as if she were trying to evaluate, to temper her reply. Leslie knew, from experience, that hesitation meant bad things.
“I am not one to interfere, ” Mrs. DiGiulio said kindly. “Oh, who am I kidding? I am one to interfere. But in a good way, Mrs. Ruskin.” She laughed to herself. “In a good way, trust me on that.”
She leaned forward. “In this classroom, we pray before lunch. I have always had the students pray before lunch. I know this is a public school and we’re not supposed to do that, but I do. If they want to fire me for believing, then they should fire me. It’s important that the children learn how to give thanks. A simple prayer is all it is. We have a big God, don’t you think? But … that’s not the reason for any of this. Today, at lunch, before we prayed, Ava raised her hand. And it was very simple. She asked me if I would pray for her mother as well as our lunch. And I said I would. I didn’t ask what the problem was. I didn’t ask if you were sick or anything. I figure that a child will tell me what he or she thinks I need to know.”
Mrs. DiGiulio waited a long moment. “When a child does something like what Ava did—being worried about a parent, wanting to help, wanting me to pray about it—their request means it’s something the child thinks they can’t help with. I think they feel powerless. I think she’s worried about something.”
Mrs. DiGiulio smiled gently. “I told her we would pray for you, and I did, and then she looked a lot less worried, like she knew the prayer would fix things. So I knew I had to ask you if everything is all right. And if it isn’t, is it something I can help you with?”
For the last minute or so of listening, Leslie had stared at her hands, now tightly folded and held in her lap.