Ella supervised the rearrangement of Bob’s bedroom. It had not been touched since Charles lived there. After we cleared out all the old pennants, basketball trophies, and the stack of hockey sticks propped up in the corner, she sent me up to the attic for a worn but serviceable yellow-and-blue quilt. While I was up there, I discovered a very distinguished looking teddy bear with one eye missing, his head nearly threadbare from probable hugging, and a faded red bow tie.
“Oh, that was Rob’s. He loved that bear. He named him Teddy, of course.” Ella stroked Ted’s ears and gently squeezed his torso, the stuffing now brittle with age. “Charles inherited him from his father. So now there will be another Bowers to love Teddy. Let’s put him on her pillow.”
We finished off the room by dusting off all the books in the bookcase, among them The Hardy Boys series, some books about aviation, and a few ancient games. Gail sighed and vowed to bring over the first Harry Potter book, A Wrinkle in Time, and a Barbie doll. I nearly protested, but kept my peace.
We three surveyed our work. The room was neat, clean, and soulless. “This wallpaper is okay,” I gestured to the slightly grayish pattern of circus animals. “But what this room needs is a couple of bright pictures, or posters, or something. Wait! I have an idea!”
Ella and Gail looked expectant as I ran out of the room, down the stairs, and across the street to my apartment. At the back of the closet in my bedroom were two framed pictures of my cat Simpson that Bryan had taken when we got him at the shelter. In one, his kitten eyes were closed, his gray tiger stripes just starting to mark the tiny “M” on his forehead. In the other, he was about six months old, and he stared at the camera, his amber eyes like magic orbs. I took them with me when I left Chicago, but I had never wanted to hang them here. I put one under each arm and hustled back to Ella’s.
Gail was handy with a hammer. Realtors do all that staging. We hung one photo over the bed, and one over the bookcase.
“I hope Bob likes cats,” Gail murmured as she closed Ella’s toolbox.
“How could there be any doubt?” I exclaimed. “We are talking about the world’s most charming animal.”
We were pooped. Well, Ella was pooped. As we followed her slow progression down the stairs, one arthritic hand gripping the handrail and the other touching the opposite wall for balance, I wondered how on earth Ella was going to survive the coming ruckus.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ella had insisted on going to the airport to meet Bob by herself. She called the cab a day ahead of time, and Simpy and I watched from our living room window as Ella, dressed in a soft, green linen shirtwaist, pearls, and a brand new pair of white Keds, paced back and forth waiting for the taxi. When it pulled up, she adjusted her white/lavender perm, straightened her shoulders, and marched down the steps, her arthritic knees probably cracking, and lowered herself into the car.
Simpson and I did our own pacing after that. I strode from my living room window, which had a clear view to Ella’s front porch, to my kitchen window, where I drank glass after glass of water as I looked out the window over my sink, craning my neck for a view down the block. Simpy followed me everywhere, twining between my legs, nearly tripping me.
Finally, I heard a car door slam. I jumped up from the sofa, where I was on patrol hiatus. Simpson fell unceremoniously off my lap, protesting with a squawk. “Sorry, sweetie!”
I rushed over to the window to see. Ella was assisted out of the back of the taxi by the cabbie, who held first her hands, and then pulled her out gently by the elbows. Ella straightened and turned to watch as a child shot out of the backseat and hurtled up the steps of Ella’s porch. A blur of skinny legs, pale skin, nut-brown curls in a froth around her head, and black high tops. She stopped suddenly, turned, and watched as her great-grandmother paid the driver, wiped her forehead with one frail hand, and slowly trudged up the steps. They paused at the top, a skinny, lightening bolt of a child and a delicate, unprepared little old woman. My head pounded with a sudden rush of dread. How was this going to go?
I picked up Simpson and pointed his furry head in the direction of the Bowers’ house. “Well, guy, there they are. And this is our immediate future.” Simpy purred. I put my head against his fuzz and gained a bit of calm from the vibrations. We watched Ella and Bob disappear into the house, the door shutting behind them.
A few hours later, as I walked past my window, I caught sight of the child sitting on Ella’s front steps. She didn’t stray from the spot, although she knocked jittery knees together. Most children, I would think, would want to wander around and explore a new place. Look around for friendly neighbors, other kids, or at least a dog or two. Cars drove by, and at least three people passed her on the sidewalk, but this child just stared at the ground, biting her nails and banging her knees. A kid rode by on a bike, and he looked over at her and swerved in her direction. She didn’t seem to notice. Watching her there, all alone in the swirl of activity, I felt sad, and once again I worried how Ella would deal with this. The door opened and Ella shuffled out. The girl looked up without a smile. Ella reached out to take her hand, but the kid shrugged it off. They went into the house.
Oh, man.
I put my cat down and shook myself off. There was cat fur all over my Josh Groban tee shirt. I blew a few stray hairs out of my nostrils and walked over to the door. I turned to Simpy, who sat, inscrutable, beside my stack of old issues of The Atlantic. “Wish me luck, fuzz ball. I’m going in.”
I rang the doorbell. Ella’s chimes were the first strains of “America, the Beautiful.”
Before it even got to spacious skies, the door was flung open, and there stood the urchin—sharp, wide hazel eyes, short coils of dark hair, a frown etched into her oval face. She wore wrinkled black cargo shorts that looked about two sizes too big, a greasy looking gray tee shirt that was so small it revealed an inch of her tummy, and I noticed that both of her Chuck Taylors were untied, the laces frayed and uneven. She looked at her feet. I was forced to blink and clear my throat.
“Hi. My name is Beck Throckmorton. Rebecca, really, but everyone calls me Beck. I live across the street. I know you might not believe this, because of my age, but I am your grandma’s best friend. We have been friends for a long time. She has told me all about you . . .” My God, this kid made me so nervous, I was BLATHERING.
She stood still, blocking the door. Slowly, she shifted her eyes to my face. “Hi.” It was barely a voice. More like a loud whisper.
I wanted to turn and run back across the street, up the stairs, into my apartment, bolting the doors and then hiding under all of the covers for the rest of the day. But I resisted. I unclenched my fists because my fingernails had begun to cut into my palms. I took a breath. Get ahold of yourself. This is just a little girl, for heaven’s sake.
Bob took a step back, opening the screen door.
I stepped into Ella’s hallway, nearly bumping into the child’s stiff shoulder. She moved out of my way in a flash, backing into the wainscoting.
“Bobby, who is it?” Ella’s voice from the living room sounded tired—raspy with what probably was a noble effort to make conversation with this kid on the way home from the airport. I stepped into the living room.
Ella’s house is just like the ones in the old movies I like to watch. You know the kind, like in the original Father of the Bride: chintz overstuffed furniture. A little dark. Wallpaper in every room. Persian rugs and curtains with tassels. Books, candlesticks, and African Violets on the windowsills. Ella’s house is a haven, as far as I am concerned.
Ella sat, sunken into the chintz chair opposite the sofa, looking as if she might dissolve into it completely before long. Her shiny pocket book was in her lap, her hands clasped over it, one of them clutching a linen hanky with a lacy pink edge. Her eyes were nearly closed. My God, the poor thing looked exhausted.
“Come in, Rebecca. Sit down. This is Bobby. Oh, dear, I guess you know that.”
Ella blotted her forehead with the hanky, shaking slightly. “Well, sit down, everybody! Let’s get to know one another.”
Bob slunk into the living room and slowly lowered herself onto the very edge of the sofa. Again, no eye contact. Her fingers played nervously with the hem of her shorts, pinching and rolling it again and again. When she did look up fleetingly, her eyes skimmed the room, as if she were looking for a corner to hide in. She reminded me of those terrified abandoned dogs you see in the animal rescue videos. The ones who squeeze themselves into the very back of their enclosures, trying to disappear so that nobody will touch them.
Ella also looked strained, a fixed smile on her face. She blew her nose loudly into her hanky, as if to get her granddaughter’s attention.
Nobody was comfortable. Desperate to make something happen, I clapped my hands like a fool. “What we need is refreshment! Something reviving! Shall I make us a drink? Ella, would you like some tea, or some ice water? Bob? I know there is some Kool-Aid. Your grandmother got it just for you. Orange or Grape?
She looked at me. Well, not exactly at me. She sort of looked through me, as if I wasn’t really right in front of her. “Okay. I don’t know what Kool-Aid is, but I like orange. I’ll pick the orange.”
I could have sworn I heard Ella groan under her breath. “Just a glass of ice water would be delightful, Rebecca.”
I poked around in the cupboards, looking for something unbreakable to put the kid’s Kool-Aid in. The words “stray dog, refugee, Oliver Twist, and outcast” went through my mind. I discovered an aluminum tumbler, and poured in some Kool-Aid and a few ice cubes. I put that and two tumblers of ice water on a tole tray and carried them into the living room, where neither Ella nor Bob looked any more at ease.
I handed Bob her drink. She peered down at it suspiciously, then sniffed at it, as if she had tons of experience with being poisoned. She took a wary sip, and swirled it around in her mouth like a sommelier, for God’s sake. But wait. She swallowed, and suddenly her timid little face broke out in a smile. It transformed her. She took a glug, put the cup down on the coffee table, ignoring the coaster. “Gran, that Kool-Aid stuff is the most delicious drink I think I have ever tasted. I do not like drinks with bubbles. Did you know that?”
Ella beamed. I relaxed. And this was my introduction to Roberta Charles Bowers.
▷◁
Mom and I have lunch every couple of weeks or so. Our favorite place is Beth’s Bistro, where the salads are to die for, Mom knows everybody, and we often share dessert.
We were discussing the new addition to my neighborhood. Mom sipped her iced mango tea as I enumerated all the ways that I thought Bob might crush Ella.
“First of all, you know how much energy eight-year-olds have. Thank God we got her that scooter. She certainly takes advantage of it. Of course, she never wears the helmet we got her, and I swear she is going to mow down Mr. Danvers one of these days. Secondly, she seems to be ready to bolt at any second. Wound up tight. Understandable under the circumstances, but STILL. She will probably have trouble making friends, so poor Ella will be stuck with entertaining her all the time that she isn’t terrorizing the neighbors on that scooter. And third, she is here for God knows how long. Poor Ella.”
Mom wiped the condensation from the side of her glass and raised her eyebrows. “She sounds like a needy little girl to me. You are the one who said she has had all sorts of trauma in her short life, Rebecca.”
I reached over and pulled a piece of croissant off Mom’s bread plate and put it in my mouth. Heaven. Mom pushed the whole plate towards me. “Go ahead. Have the whole thing. You might as well break down and order one next time; you always end up eating mine.”
I spread some butter on the remaining croissant and ate the whole thing in nearly one bite. She was right, who was I kidding, pretending not to eat carbs? We chewed for a while in companionable silence, me still thinking about the challenge that was Bob Bowers.
Mom ate another few bites of her Caesar salad, then put her fork down diagonally across the plate. She pushed the plate away slightly, so that she could clasp her hands on the tablecloth in front of her, her bangle bracelets clinking together, her French manicure perfect as always. “While we are on the subject of children, we need to talk about your sister. Diana is getting a bit stir crazy, being at home and pregnant. You know that she had to go on hiatus at work, because of the morning sickness. She can’t seem to shake it, and the Zofran they prescribed for the nausea makes her so constipated.”
I smiled as I chewed my “Field Greens with Strawberries and Candied Pecans in a Light Citrus Vinagrette.” Diana and constipation had a nice ring to it. “So? Maybe she should try prune juice.”
Mom swatted my forearm, and I dropped my fork. It clattered to the floor. I started to lean down to get it, but Mom tsked loudly. “Stop it, Beck! They will bring you another one. Now listen to me.” She wadded her napkin and set it beside her plate and cleared her throat. “I have invited her and Bryan for a visit. Diana needs a break. I am having a little brunch for her on Mother’s Day.”
I snorted. “You just told me she is sick all the time. Why a brunch? She’ll just vomit.”
My mother is an elegant and calm woman. She doesn’t swear. Her voice is gentle and well-modulated. I am not sure if she even knows what the F word actually means. So her response was a huge surprise.
Mom actually shouted. Albeit softly: “Damn it, Beck—it is high time you stopped all this sibling rivalry nonsense!”
The force of it pushed me backwards, and I nearly tipped my chair over. I shifted in my seat and tried to make it look as if I deliberately leaned back that far, in order to indicate that I was finished with my lunch. As I scrambled around, I stepped on the tines of the fallen fork, sending it flying up in the air. Luckily, it didn’t hit anyone, but landed with a clink on the marble floor a few feet away. But attention was drawn. Ugh.
Mom waved gaily at the assembled patrons. “She’s a writer! Always so dramatic!” She chuckled and turned to me with a pasted on smile. By this time, I was sweating.
“Mom.” I looked around, pulled my chair closer to the table, and lowered my voice to a near whisper. “Let me remind you of a couple of things.”
Picture a family, seated around the television on a normal, Midwestern Saturday night. Friends or Seinfeld is probably on. Everyone is happy, laughing. Suddenly, the younger of the two preteen children gets up and leaves the room. Nobody pays much attention, because something hilarious is transpiring. Popcorn is being consumed, and the father tips his head back and roars with laughter.
Suddenly, the younger daughter appears, carrying a little blue book, a tiny brass key attached to it with a twisted pink cord. “Listen to this, everyone: ‘Dear Diary, tonight I actually got my very first kiss! It was at Marcella Pruitt’s party, and her parents weren’t there. There was beer! So Tommy Connell and I went in the laundry room and made out. I didn’t like the tongue—so I kept my teeth clamped shut.’”
She waves the diary over her head. “Beck was drinking and French kissing!”
I pointed out to my mother how humiliating THAT was. She rubbed her temple with one hand while taking a large sip of tea. “A long time ago, Beck.”
I held up my hand to stop her. I reminded her of another tableau from the past.
Our family of three—because divorce. Claire, Beck, and Diana gathered around the Christmas tree. My mother has outdone herself. Her loft is decked with garlands over the fireplace, a huge silver-and-gold tree in front of the picture window; fairy lights strung all over, a homemade wreath on each side of the front door, and even a tiny crèche on top of the toilet in the powder room. We are opening gifts. Mom carefully unwraps the shiny red paper from a small box and exclaims enthusiastically over the perfume from Diana. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir thrums in the background. “This is lovely. I have never heard of Fancy.” Mom sniffs at it gingerly.
/> “Oh, it’s Jessica Simpson. Actually, it’s a re-gift. I don’t love the scent. Hey, are we out of champagne? I want another Mimosa.”
Mom shut her eyes, her eyeballs fluttering beneath the lids. “Your sister has her own issues, but doesn’t everyone?” I watched her lick her lips and take a deep breath. She opened her eyes and looked at me through her mascara, the edges of her eyes crinkling with concern. “We are a family. So as I said, Diana is having difficulty with this pregnancy, so I have invited them to come visit. That is what you need to focus on, not the past.”
I gave up and flashed Mom what I hoped was a confident smile. “All right. No. You are right. The past is the past.”
As we left the restaurant, Mom waved to various friends, her elegant legs flashing as her skirt swirled around them, her bangles tinkling with her fluttering arms. I stumped behind her, trying not to look resentful or grumpy. I probably failed.
CHAPTER FIVE
As a matter of fact, Ella was doing better with her great-granddaughter than I expected. I noticed that they had established a habit of sitting on Ella’s porch in the evenings, Ella crocheting, and Bob swinging wildly on the porch swing, the two of them deeply in conversation. I had not noticed Bob playing with any neighborhood children, and I worried that she was monopolizing Ella.
Bob had finished third grade in Iowa. So she wouldn’t be going to school in Framington until the fall. I told Simpson that I was worried about how Ella would deal with Bob all summer by herself.
“Simp.” I hefted him onto my shoulder to look at Bob and Ella on the porch. The porch light was on, and Ella sat, fanning herself with one of the fans from her extensive collection. Bob sat on the steps, looking bored, scraping the concrete steps with a stick. “I guess I have to go over there. Ella looks as if she needs a break. This kid needs to make some friends.”
Crossing the Street Page 3