Amazing Grace

by Lesley Crewe

  My granddaughter holds me close before I go. “Thanks, Gee. I love you.”

  Deanne also holds me tight and whispers, “Thank you for all you’ve done with Melissa.”

  Jonathan and I head home, listening to Christmas carols on the radio. We have an early night. I call Fletcher to tell him my flight gets in at suppertime. He says he and the critters will be there to meet me. I’m asleep by ten.

  The next morning, I have my last blissful bath in this marvellous tub and pack my things. There’s not much. I can carry it on the plane.

  Jonathan is already at the dining-room table and smiles at me when I show up. Linn is there with the coffee pot.

  “Good morning, all. Oh, thanks, Linn. Would you like to come home with me?”

  She giggles as she pours.

  “Linn, bring out our special breakfast, please,” Jonathan says.

  “Right away.”

  The orange juice is freshly squeezed. I must do that when I get home. Linn brings a whole platter of buttermilk pancakes to the table.

  “Linn! How marvellous!”

  “Not me. Mr. Willingdon made these.”

  “Just for you,” he grins.

  They’re the best damn pancakes I ever tasted.

  I’m reading a magazine later in the morning when Jonathan comes into the living room.

  “Would you mind if we went somewhere first, before going to the airport?”

  “Not at all. I’m ready now.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  Linn and I exchange fond farewells. I will miss her delicate presence and graceful manner. Too bad I couldn’t learn a few lessons from her. I’m as delicate as a moose.

  We’re in the car driving before I ask him where we’re going.

  “To see Grandfather.”

  My stomach turns. “Oh no. Don’t do that to me. I’m having such a nice time. He’ll ruin everything.”

  “He can’t ruin anything anymore, Mom. We won’t let him. I need you with me. Please?”

  He says he needs me. “Of course.”

  It’s heartbreaking to see Oliver’s house again, thinking of the day Aaron and I walked in so many years ago. Nothing looks like it’s changed. A great soulless place, devoid of love and happiness.

  Jonathan knocks on the closed study door and Oliver tells him to come in.

  When he sees me behind Jonathan, his face goes white.

  “What is she doing here?”

  Oliver is like Dorian Gray. He’s still a handsome man, even in his eighties. His hair is white and his face is full of wrinkles, but time has treated him kindly. The only concession to old age is his walnut cane with brass handle. He slams it down on the floor a few times.

  “I said, what is she doing here? She’s not welcome in my house.”

  “If she’s not welcome, then I’m not welcome.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the days are over when you can ignore my mother. She is and always will be my blood, and I’m giving you fair warning. If you do not treat her with the respect she deserves, then I will have nothing to do with you.”

  He gets out of his chair. “Have you gone mad? How dare you speak to me this way? I’ve given you everything.”

  Jonathan marches up to him. “You’ve given me a lifetime of misery. I was a lonely, sad little boy who just lost his dad and only wanted his mother and you denied me that. You took her away from me and filled my head with lies.”

  “She’s telling you nonsense. Don’t listen to her. If you want her in your life then you’re a fool. See her as much as you want, but I will never welcome her in my home. And if you don’t watch it, you’ll be turfed out as well. I still own this company, in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t have to stand for this insubordination. I don’t care how long you’ve worked for me. I can take everything away in the blink of an eye.”

  Jonathan straightens his shoulders. “As can I.”

  For the first time Oliver looks hesitant. “What are you talking about? You wouldn’t dare leave this company.”

  “I’m resigning as of today. I already have a new job lined up. Believe it or not, there are other business leaders in the city who are clamouring for the chance to work with me and can’t believe the lengths you’ve gone to in trying to implicate me in your money schemes. They know the truth and now I can write my own ticket. So you’re on your own, Grandfather. Just the way you like it.”

  The shock on Oliver’s face is almost frightening to look at. “But this is madness! How can you walk away from your own flesh and blood?”

  Jonathan turns to me. “I believe I’ll let you answer this question, Mom.”

  I step closer to this miserable old man and glare at him. “He can walk away because he isn’t your flesh and blood. Jonathan isn’t Aaron’s son. And Aaron knew that and loved him anyway.”

  “You’re a liar! Get out of my house, you miserable bitch!”

  “Gladly.” I spin around and walk to the door, Jonathan behind me .

  “Jonathan, wait! She’s crazy! Don’t listen to her.”

  Jon stops at the threshold of the door. “I’ve been your puppet long enough. My mother came here and helped save my daughter, and while she was at it, she saved me. She’s done more for me in a month than you’ve done in a lifetime. I hope you and your money are very happy together. Believe me, we won’t give you another thought from this day forward.”

  He slams the study door and we hurry to the car, both of us shaking. Jonathan drives out onto the street but he parks in the first space he sees. He covers his face with his hands.

  “Are you all right, Jon? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? How did you get those other business people to—”

  “I lied.” He uncovers his face and catches his breath. “I don’t have a job. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  He turns and laughs at me. “Oh shit, is right. But that felt so good. You have no idea how glorious it is to be released from prison.”

  “I have an inkling.”

  The Grace who left is not the Grace who comes home. I run as soon as I get off the plane. The minute I see Fletcher I give him a squeeze. “I am so happy to be home.”

  “We sure missed you.”

  My crazy hound dogs go out of their minds when they see me walking towards the car. It makes me laugh to see their nose prints on the car windows. After a joyful hello we settle in for the ride home. Then I pause. “Where’s Beulah?”

  “My grandmother has kidnapped her. They get along like a house on fire.”

  “Beulah seems to get along with everyone she meets.”

  We catch up on each other’s news as we drive home. I can tell that Fletcher is well pleased that Jonathan and I have patched things up. He always knew how much it weighed on me.

  “The ladies at the church have called about five times in a complete tizzy over some tea and sale. You’d think the Apocalypse was coming. Without you, they’re panicking.”

  “It’s nice to be wanted.”

  We go to pick Beulah up but she’s on Nan’s lap sound asleep and Nan waves us off, so we go home without her.

  “You’re right. We may never get her back.”

  Fletch has a pot of homemade beans ready for us. He even bought corn bread. We eat in comfortable silence as the dogs gobble up their supper and the cats purr on the counter. Then Fletch heads for his recliner while I do the dishes. I pour a cup of tea and start the crossword puzzle, but something doesn’t feel right. That’s when I remember my cigarettes. I pull them out of my purse and look at them. With all the drama going on, I haven’t had one in two days. If I can go without for two whole days, I can go for three. And it upsets my son and granddaughter to see me smoke. Out with the trash go the cigarettes.

 
I join Fletch and we watch a bit of television. Then I get ready for bed and pick up my book that’s still on the nightstand. At eleven, I hear Fletch bank the fire, let the dogs out, let them in. His bedsprings groan, my signal to turn out my light.

  “Night, Fletch,” I shout.

  “Night, you old bat!”

  It’s so good to be home.

  The Christmas tea and sale is in two days. I run down to the church hall where I know the ladies are setting up and charge through the door. “I’m here.”

  “Fat lot of good that will do,” Delima sniffs. “We don’t have enough crafts for the craft table, thanks to you.”

  The ladies buzz around the tables getting things ready. Everything does look very nice, but the craft table is paltry. “I’m sorry. I had a family emergency and was called away.”

  “You better think of something quick,” Delima says.

  Gladys Nicolson tsks. “We’ll just jiggle some of the stuff around and add to Grace’s table. Not worth arguing over.”

  Delima puts her shoulders back. “I am not arguing. I’m merely pointing out that she needs more items on her table.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. As a matter of fact, I have it. Gotta go.”

  “Go? Where?” Delima sounds annoyed. I’m already out the door.

  At the Christmas tea and sale, my craft table is an enormous hit. I have Beulah in her sweater, showing off all the other colourful fleece dog sweaters in all sizes I’ve sewn up in the last forty-eight hours. Everyone is mad for them. Beulah is obviously the drawing point, and my table is busy from the minute we open until we close. The Golden Collar Dog Grooming owner bought five! There are a few ladies who shall remain nameless that are mightily miffed that I’ve done so well, almost six hundred dollars. The rest of them are grateful that the coffers will be full.

  On Christmas Day we go down to Nan’s for dinner. We bought her a new television and she’s tickled pink. Fletcher even got her a remote that has very large numbers on it so she can see what she’s doing. Now if she’ll just remember how to use it. We write the instructions down and leave it on the coffee table. She picked up Avon soap for me and a pair of slippers for Fletch as well as bags of treats for the dogs and cats. Exactly what we needed. Fletch and I don’t exchange gifts. We write cheques to our favourite charities, which naturally include the local animal shelter.

  That night at home we stay up a little later, finishing off a bottle of bubbly while we enjoy our small tree lit up in the dark.

  “I’m half in the bag, Fletch.”

  “I’m all the way in! Who knew champagne had such a kick?”

  “How did we get so lucky?” I slur. “I mean, we live like a married couple, but we have none of the crap that goes along with it.”

  He downs his glass. “You mean the romance? I think there’s something wrong with us. I mean, I love you very much but I’ve never even hit on you. For that matter, I haven’t hit on anyone in my whole life.”

  I jump out of my chair and sway in front of him. “Get out! Never?”

  “A few times in high school, in between trying to stay away from Dora, but I never felt the need to be with anyone. They probably have a word for that now. Thank god, I don’t know it. I was just born a bachelor and I’m perfectly content with that.”

  “So if I make the huge mistake of kissing you right now, you’d be disgusted?”

  Fletch chuckles. “No doubt about it.”

  “You shit head!” I jump in his lap and give him a great big smack. “How was that?”

  He looks perplexed. “Not bad, actually, but I am drunk.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll be staying a dried up old prune, which is fine by me.” I get off his lap, stretch my arms over my head and yawn. “Shall we hit the hay?”

  “Might as well. It’s been a great Christmas.”

  We shuffle around, putting the house to bed, and I wait for Fletch’s bed springs to creak. That’s when I hear him shout, “The old farts were nestled all snug in their beds!”

  I answer, “While visions of coconut balls danced in our heads! And Mama in her long johns…”

  “…and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap!”

  “Good night, you old fool.”

  “Night, Gracie.”

  I’m not sure why I wake in the middle of the night, but I know instantly something is not right. The dogs are whining. Maybe someone’s in the trailer. You hear of break-ins at Christmas time.

  “Fletch! Fletch! Wake up!”

  When he doesn’t answer me I jump out of bed and hurry to wake him up, but he’s already awake, and he’s in a sweat.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t panic. You should call an ambulance.”

  I immediately call 911 and unlock the side door and turn on the outdoor light. Then quickly to the bathroom to get a baby aspirin, which I put under Fletcher’s tongue. “It’s okay. They’ll be here soon. Just stay calm, I’m here with you.”

  “Shouldn’t have had a second helping of plum pudding,” he whispers.

  “You’re going to be fine. I won’t let you die.

  “Good.”

  Fletch is wheeled into surgery and, thanks to the stars in the sky and the wind on my hill, he makes it. He’s in the hospital for a couple of weeks after his quadruple bypass surgery and he’s given a stern lecture to lose a lot of weight. I assure the doctors that I will take care of it.

  “You’re going to be the healthiest man in Cape Breton,” I tell him.

  “Not sure I like the sounds of that,” he frowns.

  “You’ll do as you’re told.”

  He smiles. “Bossy.”

  The day Fletch comes home, who comes roaring up the driveway but Dora Trimm. It’s like she has some weird telepathy that tells her Fletcher is within range. She’s carrying two armfuls of baked goods. I throw on my jacket and go out the door into the cold, my arm held out in front of me.

  “No, Dora. Fletcher is on a diet and he won’t be needing any of your baking from now on.”

  Her face falls. “A little isn’t going to hurt him. The poor man needs a treat now and again.”

  “Fletcher needs to lose weight. We almost lost him, no thanks to me or you.”

  “You’re blaming me? I cook for Harvey, and he hasn’t had a heart attack.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “Then I’ll make low-calorie desserts. Do you have a problem with that?”

  I reach over, grab her tins, and fling them into the snow. They burst open and shower the dogs with cookies, much to their amazement.

  Now I have my finger in her face. “You need psychological help with your obsession over Fletcher. He doesn’t love you, Dora. He’s your friend, nothing more. And guess what? You’re married! Go home and love your husband and leave this poor man alone.”

  She bursts into tears.

  Honest to god.

  So I bring her into the house and make her a cup of tea. Thankfully Fletcher is in his bedroom. The only snack I have is Melba toast and peanut butter, but she gobbles them up as she sips her tea.

  “Fletcher was always nice to me in school and not many kids were.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “My nickname was Dumb Dora. I have dyslexia, you see. Back then people just called you stupid, but Fletcher never did. And he listens to me. Fletcher always seems interested in what I have to say. The only thing Harvey ever does is talk about fishing. Who can have a decent conversation when it’s always about mackerel?”

  “Look, Dora, I apologize for throwing your baking in the snow. I know you have a generous heart, but Fletch gave me a fright, and I have to do everything I can to protect him. Do you understand?”

  She nods sadly.

  “Perhaps you can find some low-calorie recipes I might tr
y after all. That would be helpful.”

  Dora looks a little brighter. “Okay. I’ll bring some over.”

  “Would you mind calling first? Fletcher needs his rest. When he’s ready for company I’ll let you know.”

  I help pick up the now empty tins and she’s on her way. My dogs come inside, sit in front of the fire, and fart all afternoon. Must have been those oatmeal raisin cookies.

  A few weeks after Fletcher comes home, winter arrives with a vengeance. We listen to the howling of a nor’easter battering the trailer. Sometimes the wind literally screams as it rushes down the hill. When I take a peek out the kitchen door, all I can see is blowing snow so thick it looks like we’re being splashed by an ocean’s surf. I worry about all the feral cats around the neighbourhood and in town. I’ve started a program whereby the church ladies and I are raising funds to build cat shelters. Only Delima refuses to participate.

  “We used to drown kittens when I was a kid,” she says matter-of-factly at a church meeting.

  “And that is why I will hate you forever, Delima.”

  She gives me a filthy look. “You have a screw loose!”

  Fletcher frets about me bringing wood in for the fire, and doesn’t want me to run the truck with the snowplow attachment to clear the yard. He gets a friend to come up and do it, which annoys me.

  “I’m perfectly capable of driving a truck back and forth.”

  “I don’t want you out on that slippery snow more than you have to be. If you break a hip, we’re done for.”

  I pour him tea with lemon.

  “I hate tea with lemon.”

  “Tough.”

  The next day, I get an email from a social services office in Toronto. I had written to them asking if they had any records for a Trixie and Ave Maria Fairchild. I’m trying to reach every city and town in Ontario and cross them off the list. It’s a lot of work, but there’s nothing else to do on these dark winter nights.

  Dear Mrs. Willingdon,

  I’m afraid there is no record at all for a Trixie Fairchild in our jurisdiction, but I did come across an A. Maria Fairchild who used our bereavement services a few years ago. I’ve enclosed an address and phone number. I do hope this is helpful to you.