“How ya-all?” she asked, pouring Bashia a mugfull.
“Oh, that smells so good, just what I needed! I didn’t know you worked at noontime. Aren’t you usually here for the late afternoon shift? Or are you always here?”
“No, I’m not, and yeah, you’re right, I usually work the afternoon shift. But the day girl, Ginny, needed to have the day off for her kid’s Halloween party at school, so I’m fillin’ in; her little girl has some kinda costume that only Ginny could put together, and the teacher asked her to be there. Lordy, I’m sure glad my kids are grown outa that stage! We do favors for each other, whenever. It don’t matter to the boss, as long as the floor’s covered.” While she prattled on, she wiped the scratched white Formica tabletop and put a menu before Bashia. Tucking her wiry reddish hair into a net too small to contain it, she took a pad out of her apron pocket and waited.
“At any rate, I’m happy to see you–you’re my favorite waitress.”
“Oh, I bet ya say that to all waitresses,” EmmaMae giggled. She had worked in the diner for several years and knew most of the regulars, some by name and others by their familiar faces. She was always ready to share a joke or spend a few minutes with a customer.
“What can I get ya today? Our special is stuffed peppers an–”
“No thanks, I just left my client and she insisted I have lunch with her. She spoils me every time with her soups and salads. They are so good! But I will take a dish of your bread pudding if you don’t mind. Sam makes the best bread pudding! I just needed to stop and get my mind in gear, with this order and other things happening in my life.”
“Oh,” EmmaMae said, her eyes wide with concern. “I hope it ain’t nothin’ bad.”
“No, not at all. My friend just moved into the area and I–well, it’ll all work out.”
“I hope so. I don’t want my favorite customer to forget we’re here. Bread pudding comin’ right up. Here’s today’s paper, if you’re interested.” She handed Bashia the Worcester Telegram and called out the order to Sam over the kitchen pass-through window.
Bashia thanked her, put the paper aside and looked around. Two elderly men were sitting at the counter joking with each other. Three other booths were filled with customers, and EmmaMae had stopped to gossip at a nearby booth. Bashia heard her say, “I’m in shape! Round’s a shape, ain’t it?” followed by her infectious giggle. Apparently they were steady customers.
Shiny, silvery steel covered most of the walls, reflecting the cooking area and people, making the place seem larger. Bashia wondered if the diner had been converted from an old railroad car. When the Boston and Albany Railroad had been purchased by the New York Central years ago, it had cut back on the number of trains from Boston to Albany, stopping at Worcester, Springfield and Pittsfield along the way. Did they sell their dining cars, she wondered? Her dad had worked as a conductor on the B&A most of his life and she tried to remember what the diners looked like when she “rode the rails”. Her family frequently traveled by train and she vividly remembered a trip to Boston she had made alone. Her mother had put her on the train in Pittsfield with a cardboard box of five-week-old puppies to take to her father in Boston. She had a hard time keeping them in the box. Of course, the conductors looked after her. But as a ten-year-old, she had felt very grown up to be sent on an important mission on her own.
Finally, Bashia stopped her daydreaming and opened her datebook to pencil in her time and mileage under Mrs. Eldridge’s name. In another folder she reviewed her order. The draperies from Mrs. Eldridge’s old home needed to be shortened and repleated. She wondered if she should hang the drapes or find someone to do it. But the rods were already in place and she decided she could do it herself. She made a note to bring a ladder with the delivery. She needed to find an installer for future installations, but right now she needed to get home and do some sewing. Two previous orders were waiting to be finished; she hated to get behind on her orders and promises.
EmmaMae’s appearance interrupted her train of thought, “Here ya are,” she sang out, gaily putting down a steaming hot dish of bread pudding, topped with ice cream. She winked, “Just a little extra, that’ll perk ya up!”
“Oh, EmmaMae, what am I going to do with you? Pretty soon I won’t be able to slide into this booth.” They both laughed as she attacked the heaping dish in front of her.
* * *
Bashia spent the rest of the afternoon in her workroom. A few phone calls interrupted her work.
“Where are you keeping yourself?” Dottie’s call was one of them. “I’m trying to decide what colors I want to put in here. I thought you were going to be back soon?”
“I will, I will! But right now I have a large order to finish for the hospital and I’m in trouble. Do you think you could come and help me?”
“Why, what do you want me to do?” asked Dottie.
“Well, I’ve got these cubicle curtains to finish and Fran, one of my regulars, can’t come tomorrow.”
“But I don’t know anything about sewing,” Dottie protested. “I have a hard time sewing on a button.”
“Don’t worry, Catherine and I will do most of the work–we just need an extra pair of hands. It won’t involve sewing. The curtains are so large, you know, it’s just awkward to handle them. Can you come over tomorrow morning bright and early? We should be able to finish them by early afternoon.”
“Sure. Whatever. I owe you, anyway.”
“No, you don’t owe me anything. I’m happy to be able to help you and it’s just great to have you living in this neck of the world. So I can count on you at eight?”
“That early?” groaned Dottie. “You know I’m not a morning person! But I guess I can make the sacrifice. I’ll feed the cats before I leave and pick up some donuts on the way. You do have coffee for your workers, don’t you?”
Bashia laughed, “Yes, the coffee pot is always on—sometimes more that it should be. But, great, anything to get you over here.”
* * *
The sun hadn’t yet entered the workroom when Bashia opened the door the next morning and checked the temperature to see if she needed to turn up the thermostat. She turned on the lights and soon was deep in thought on the progress of the cubicle curtains.
The mesh and fabric had already been cut and panels seamed together to allow for the twenty-five-foot width. Strips of fabric had been sewn together, ready to attach to the top of the mesh. Catherine could do that, then Bashia and Dottie would space out and punch in the metal grommets. After a final remeasure of each piece, her two helpers would slide the ten-by-twenty-five-foot curtain along the cutting table while she sewed a double seam on the edges.
This was the last batch of the forty-eight curtains, a large order and at first she was reluctant to take the job. “You know I’m suppose to be retired,” she had joked with Paul Mazur. But she liked him too much to disappoint. He was one of the first commercial operations to take a chance on her when she started her business. That was just a small job of replacing blue vertical vanes in the doctor’s conference room but, since that time, he continued to give her orders for verticals and mini-blinds.
Through the years he had moved up in his job from housekeeping to facilities manager, while Laura O, his assistant, became head of housekeeping. From time to time visiting representatives and jobbers had tried to convince Paul to use their larger workrooms, but Paul valued the knowledge that he could get Bashia or her husband at any time to replace a rod or make minor repairs.
The eighty-year-old hospital was now being expanded and renovated, with each room featuring soothing, color-coordinated patterns on wallpaper and cubicle curtains, with solid color spreads.
Bashia’s workroom had taken on grander dimensions when she had first received an order for cubicle curtains in the birthing suites several years ago—Norman had made another large cutting table and machined a tool to make it easy to attach the dozens of grommets onto the curtains. Shelves were stocked with rolls of nylon mesh and boxes of gromme
ts and she had bought another commercial sewing machine.
Now, with this order Laura O had volunteered to install the curtains in the rooms as they were finished. Bashia was delighted. She had worried about the installation, planning to enlist her teenage grandson, but now that was unnecessary.
* * *
A crunching of tires on the gravel driveway announced the arrival of both Dottie and Catherine, one behind the other. Soon they were busy pouring themselves a cup of coffee and eating donuts while they got acquainted.
“I really like coming over here, it can hardly be called work,” Catherine explained to Dottie when Bashia went to the office to answer the phone. “We have fun gossiping, but our boss is such a demon when it comes to getting things done! Did she tell you what she does when we make a mistake? No? Just don’t get in her way!”
Dottie hadn’t seen the business side of Bashia and now wondered if she made a mistake by agreeing to help her. After all, she didn’t know the first thing about sewing.
Catherine smiled at her frown and laughed, “Don’t worry, she always kicks the table before she kicks you! But really, if Bashia’s got something on her mind, stay clear of her.”
“Hmm,” hesitated Dottie.
Seeing that she had frightened Dottie, Catherine put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Now don’t worry, she’s really a good old girl at heart. Here, let me find a poem she wrote once about the workroom–it even got published in a decorating magazine!”
Catherine went to a file cabinet and rummaged through several magazines before pulling one from the drawer. “Listen,” she read,
“Machines buzz, phones ring, girls talk, radios sing,
Hot coffee, steam irons, fabric spray, machine oil,
Pink moire, gold lame, cabbage roses, rainbow swirls, convict stripes, tartan plaids, smooth silk, rough twill, shiny chintz, sturdy drill.
Cornice boards, pillow fill, cordless drill, tacks, staple gun, scissors, pins, rulers, thread–await the working girls–artists creating beauty for a room.”
© Florence Waszkelewicz Clowes, 1990.
“Wasn’t that nice of her–we’re artists! And that’s just the way it is here when we’re all busy helping Bashia.”
Before Dottie could answer, Bashia returned, “What are you up to? I don’t see any work getting done!”
“Why, we’re waiting for you to tell us what to do and I was just sharing this poem of yours with Dottie,” Catherine answered.
As they began their work, Dottie said, “I’ve been busy since we last saw each other, too, Bashia. There are two animal clinics in Putnam and I visited them both yesterday. I wanted to see the facilities and get acquainted with the vet, before I decide which one I would feel more comfortable with. I like the woman doctor better–Doctor Lorraine Moose, she was very nice.
“She’s a small animal vet and took the time to show me around the clinic and gave me a pet first aid kit and booklet. It includes information on emergency procedures, problems that should be taken care of by a vet, and a record booklet for immunizations. She said the Red Cross offers a course on emergency needs for cats and dogs! I wasn’t aware of anything like that before. The first aid kit is just like those for people–gauze, adhesive tape, old pieces of towel, hydrogen peroxide, an eyedropper or syringe and a soft cloth muzzle. Oh, and also milk of magnesia and activated charcoal to absorb poison–I was amazed at how much stuff was in there.
“Dr. Moose–what a name–recommended I keep a two-week supply of cat food and medications on hand, as there may be times when I can’t get out in the wintertime. By the way, what kind of winters should I expect?”
Bashia felt relieved that Dottie’s usual chit-chat pattern was back, unwinding like a ball of yarn, going here and there, and never seeming to stop. She burst out in laughter. “Doctor Moose? I thought you said she was a small animal vet! Does she have a long nose and soft brown eyes? Does her hair flop down on both sides of her face? Are her arms and legs long?”
“I didn’t really look at her that closely.” Dottie hesitated, puzzled. “Bashia, what’s so funny? Have you met her?”
“No, but I’ve met a moose before and that’s what I envision–a tall, gangly creature, long, tan ears and legs, looking kind of stupid, clip-clopping down the middle of the highway.” Bashia wiped the tears from her eyes, struggling to control herself. Finally she said, “What did you ask me? Oh, yes, the winters–sometimes they can get pretty rough, but other years they’re quite mild, only three feet of snow–just kidding!
“Well, I sure am glad you’re starting to venture out to get acquainted in the area. I intended to get back to your place before this but, as usual, I’ve been busy. I just got wound up thinking about your skeleton and trying to get some orders finished. And I always forget about the time when I’m on the computer.
“Oh, guess what? I found some information and pictures of Danielle Stoddard on the Internet! She’s the former owner of your house and has been missing since 1993! There were some articles about her winning dogs and the latest one said her sister, Mrs. Elizabeth Stearns, is petitioning the court to have her declared dead!
“When I told Mark–Trooper Jankowski–he said a detective from homicide had called her and asked for a blood sample to make a DNA comparison. She lives in Avon now, near Hartford. What do you say we go and talk to her? She must suspect that the skeleton is her sister. Isn’t that awful? We could go to the new Design Center at Riverwalk in East Hartford, give her a call, and go visit her. How about that?”
“Gracious, Bashia, will you slow down? I couldn’t keep up with you in Jamaica and I see you haven’t changed. I want to look at fabrics, but I’m not sure I want to visit Mrs. Stearns. She doesn’t even know us!”
“I know, but just think, you own Danielle’s place now, we found a skeleton, and she must be a little upset with all this, after all these years of waiting and wondering. Maybe she needs a shoulder to cry on. Can you go next Monday?”
Reluctantly, Dottie agreed. “I think you better do most of the talking though. I’m not sure I’ll know what to say. And why don’t you just call that trooper ‘Mark’ and get it over with!”
Bashia blushed, she felt like a schoolgirl. “Well, we’ll play it by ear. When we get to East Hartford, we’ll call her. Maybe she won’t see us, but at least we can try. I’ll pick you up around 8:30 Monday morning. Get your ideas together and we’ll see what the Design Center has to offer, O.K? And I’d like to call him Mark, but feel funny doing it.”
“Oh, get off it, you know you like him. Although I can’t imagine why, he’s not attractive at all. Certainly not my type of guy. And didn’t he say to call him Mark before?”
Catherine had been busily trimming threads on the finished curtains and had brought out some packing boxes during Bashia and Dottie’s conversation. “Well, that sounds like some intrigue you gals have going. I’d love to know more about it, but I don’t have time today. I have to pick up my mother, take her to lunch and to the beauty salon. When I finally convinced her to quit driving last year, I promised we would make this a weekly routine and we both enjoy it. So I’ll be taking off now–if you need any more help, I’ll be available tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks anyway, Catherine. You’re a gem to be available when I need you,” Bashia said. “Thank God, we’re finished and Laura O is going to pick them up later today or tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I’ve got another project to finish up this afternoon.”
Dottie, impressed at Bashia’s energy and productivity, looked at the amount of work they had completed. “I can see why that hospital guy likes to have you work for him. That’s quite an output, especially for a semi-retired, one-woman business. It’s been fun to be a part of it, Bashia, but I’ve got some errands to run this afternoon, too. Thanks for including me–but soon you must get back to work on my house, even though the pay isn’t as good!”
Bashia laughed. “Well, at least you bring humor into my life now and then. Thanks for your help; an extra pair of ha
nds is always welcome. I’ll see you Monday morning, if not before.”
After a quick, stand-up lunch in the kitchen, Bashia returned to her sewing, hoping to make Mrs. Kaster’s set of pillow shams before nightfall. Time passed quickly as she worked and suddenly the bell over her showroom door jangled. That must be Laura O stopping by on her way home to see if the rest of the curtains were completed, she thought. Looking through the French doors she saw a state trooper.
“Mark, what a surprise!” she said as she opened the door.
“Well, I was in the neighborhood and I thought you might be interested in Chinese food. I bought some to take home, then thought I’d take a chance of finding you here. Interested?”
“You were in the neighborhood? The Chinese takeout is five miles away!” she laughed. “But I’m really glad you came. It’s been a very busy day, but when I start to sew I just keep going until I can’t stand to sit at the machine any longer. This is great, I won’t have to think of what to have for dinner! Wait a minute, I’ll close up and we’ll go to the house.”
As they crossed the yard Mark noticed a two-seater swing swaying from a large branch of an overgrown apple tree, its leaves beginning to turn brown. Other branches spread out over the swing, almost touching the ground, creating a canopy. Beyond that he could see the rest of the small orchard, in a field of overgrown golden grasses. “What a great place you have here!”
Bashia nodded. “Yes, it is. In the fall a herd of deer usually comes through and eats all the apples on the ground. It’s such a thrill to watch them.”
She turned on the lights as they entered the kitchen of the barn-red farmhouse. Breakfast dishes were still in the sink, along with a few crumbs from her brief lunch break. A clutter of the usual kitchen items sat on the counters–a microwave, bread box, coffee pot, and toaster. A small wooden bucket holding an assortment of utensils stood next to a well-worn cutting board. A blue enamel teapot was on the stove and a blue vase of yellow chrysanthemums sat on a small table, complementing the pale yellow walls. “Do you want something to drink? Or did you buy tea too?”
Bones in the Backyard Page 7