And Then You Dye

by Monica Ferris

  “A Newfoundland,” said Lars. “He helps babysit our children. He’s especially good at keeping them from drowning.”

  “Really?” Mitchell didn’t know whether or not his leg was being pulled.

  “Really,” said Jill. “They love to go out into the water and pull drowning people to shore. You don’t have to train them, they do it naturally.”

  Mitchell and Chloe stared at the dog, dozing on a blanket with Erik and Emma, as if expecting him to dash into the lake any second. When he didn’t, Mitchell said, “Mom, I’m hot, can we have some ice cream?”

  “All right,” said Philadelphia. “Come along.” And off they went.

  A few minutes later, Patricia’s husband Peter woke up full of energy. His enthusiasm soon had the other adults up and moving, which woke the children up. They organized a three-legged relay race which included some adults and children from other groups and resulted in some strenuous efforts and embarrassing, no-injury tumbles. Jill and Connor proved so great together a hasty rule was passed that they could no longer pair up. Annie proved enthusiastic but clumsy, and Alice refused all attempts to be recruited as a contestant. Lars won a heat with his son as a partner by lifting Erik off the ground by his arm, and another rule was passed: no carrying.

  The competition was declared over when no one wanted to run anymore.

  Everyone retired to a sitting place and lemonade was passed around.

  “Whew!” said Lars after half a glass. “That was fun.”

  “I winned with Daddy!” boasted Erik.

  “Yes, you did, Airey,” agreed Jill.

  “I almost won,” said Emma, not as boastfully. She had finished a surprising second with Phil as a partner.

  “You were great!” said Phil, raising his glass to her. “Next year you’ll be a couple inches taller and you and me, we’ll finish first every time!”

  “You bet!” said Emma, much gratified, raising her glass in return.

  Half ashamed of their returning appetites, members of the group began wandering by the ice chests, taking a slice of cake, a fistful of potato chips, a soft drink, “just a dab” of potato salad. The talk became general. Jill mentioned the hydrangeas she planned to buy, and Alice offered some planting advice. “Dig a bigger hole than you think you need, fertilize it right away, and give it plenty of water the first week.”

  “Thanks, Alice. Marge said the flowers on the variety of hydrangeas she has are naturally pink, but I’m thinking I’d like a pink one and a blue one, for Emma and Erik, so I guess I’ll buy the chemical mix to change the color of one of them.”

  “You don’t need chemicals,” Annie said. “Just bury a set of aluminum measuring cups under one and it’ll change to blue. That’s what a neighbor of ours did, back when I was a kid.”

  Jill stared at her. “Measuring cups?”

  “Aluminum measuring cups,” said Annie. “It’s the aluminum that makes the color change. I bet when you look at the bottle or can of whatever is supposed to turn the pink flowers blue, you’ll see that it contains aluminum.”

  “Annie’s right,” said Alice. “My cousin Tillie did it with her hydrangeas. Only she did it with alum—which is aluminum and something else.”

  “Aluminum sulfate,” said Bershada. She added darkly, “Used also as a mordant in dyeing.”

  Betsy looked thoughtfully at Bershada. Wasn’t alum one of the mordants in Hailey’s arsenal?

  Twenty-three

  THE fireworks display didn’t start until a little after ten and lasted for an hour. Connor, world traveler, politely remarked that it was nearly as good as any he’d ever seen. Other towns around the lake had displays, too, so there was a continuous shower of sparks no matter where you looked. The children cheered and clapped at everything, though Erik got a little cranky toward the end, it being well past his bedtime.

  Betsy had to work the next day and so gratefully accepted Connor’s offer to drive Annie home.

  Connor’s car was a Chrysler, bought used three years ago, scrupulously maintained. He was a good driver, but his right foot had a high lead content.

  He had to be very patient getting out of town, as the lake blocked several directions, and traffic was heavy. Fortunately, he was as patient as he was lead-footed. Annie sat quietly in the passenger seat.

  At last she said, “You and Betsy still getting along good, I can tell.”

  Amused, Connor said, “How can you tell?”

  “You don’t interrupt when the other is speaking, and you like to cuddle in the dark.”

  It was true that when darkness fell, Connor and Betsy sat close together—Betsy had given her chair to Annie, so Connor sat with her on a blanket. And Connor, after a bit of reflecting, agreed that he and Betsy tended to hear each other out.

  “You’re very perceptive,” he said.

  “You don’t think it’s a bad thing that she likes to act like a detective?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of imposing my opinion on her.”

  “So you don’t like it much.”

  “I worry that she’s not always careful.”

  “Me, too. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She turned my life around.”

  “Oh, I think you would have turned it around all by yourself sooner or later.”

  “Maybe I would,” Annie agreed loftily. Then she said, “And then, just like now, my no-good son would come around looking for me to support him.”

  “Betsy told me something about that. I know it must be hard to turn your back on your own son.”

  “Especially since he’s my only child.” Annie fell silent for a while. “But needs must when the devil drives. Did I say that right? Godwin taught it to me. He says it means you have to do what there is to do when there’s no other choice.”

  “You said it correctly. I’m sorry it’s come to that, Annie.”

  “Look, there’s an opening,” she said, and sure enough, traffic suddenly thinned and they went roaring up Highway 15.

  The road curved back and forth along here, following the contours of the lake. Connor slalomed along it expertly, about twenty miles an hour over the limit.

  “Wow, you drive really good!” cheered Annie.

  “Thank you.” He was pleased she wasn’t fearful.

  In a few minutes they drove up a long, curving ramp onto I-394 East and were on their way to Minneapolis.

  “Now you can really go fast,” said Annie.

  “No, there’s a highway patrolman three cars behind us,” said Connor, who had long ago learned to keep a sharp lookout for cars with low-rise complications on their roofs.

  Annie laughed. “I like you,” she said. “You’re smart.”

  Connor took the Dunwoody exit into the western edge of downtown and followed Annie’s directions to an old-fashioned, four-story, dark red brick building with a modest glassed-in porch marking the entrance. It was a decent neighborhood; not far away was the Minneapolis Art Institute.

  “Home,” said Annie with a contented little sigh.

  Connor stopped beside some parked cars to let her out, but then spotted a figure by the porch. A thin man, wearing a loose-fitting white T-shirt and sagging jeans, was leaning against the door to the place, and something about his pose told Connor he was drunk or stoned.

  “Uh-oh,” said Annie, also looking at the man.

  “What’s wrong? Do you know who that is?”

  With a sharp, scared edge to her voice, Annie said, “I wonder if it’s Cole, my son. If it is, there might be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Yelling, maybe. Maybe crying, to make me give in and let him come inside with me.”

  “You don’t want him to come inside with you?” Betsy had told him about Annie’s problematic son but hadn’t gone
into too many details.

  “No. No, absolutely not.” But Annie was trembling, whether from fear or irresolution, Connor couldn’t tell.

  But the problem was Annie’s, not Betsy’s—or his. He needed the solution to come from her. “What do you want me to do? Shall we just drive away?”

  Annie took a deep breath and her voice firmed. “Drive where? And what, not come back, ever? I live here, this is my home! I want him to go away!” Her head bowed. “But I’m scared.”

  “How about I have a word with him?” Connor pulled ahead, into a space a few cars down.

  “No, he’s my problem, I’ll talk to him,” said Annie with a determined lift to her chin.

  He watched her as she got out and walked back to the entrance. He rolled down his car windows, shut off his engine, then turned in his seat so he could watch and hear. The man stirred at her approach, then suddenly stepped forward.

  “Ma!” he cried in a high-pitched voice. “I thought you’d never get here!”

  “You go away!” barked Annie. “I told you not to come here!”

  “But Ma, I need a place to stay!” The man was swaying a little. “I’m sick, Ma!” He was speaking very loudly, probably in an attempt to get her to shush him by giving in.

  “You’re drunk. And you’re not staying here!”

  “I ain’t drunk, Ma, and you got to let me in.” The man reached for her arms. “You got to let me stay!” He began to shake her. “You hear me? I’m your son!”

  “Let go, you’re hurting me!”

  Connor bailed out of the car and hurried up the sidewalk. He came up behind Annie and said firmly, “Is there a problem here?”

  The man’s whine vanished and he snarled, “This don’t concern you!”

  But Annie twisted out of his surprise-loosened grip, gasping, “How dare you hurt me!” Her sideways step left the two men directly confronting each other.

  Connor, anger and concern making him feel large, said, “Leave her alone! Go on, get out of here!”

  With no warning the drunk man struck Connor in the face with his fist.

  Connor had spent most of his life in the merchant marine, and enough of that time in the mean districts of harbor towns. His conditioned response was to punch the drunk in the stomach as hard as he could.

  “Ooff!” The man staggered back and sat down hard on the pavement.

  Annie clapped both hands to her cheeks “Are you hurt?” she exclaimed.

  Connor didn’t know whom she was asking—possibly both of them. “Not badly,” he said, though his left eye was watering and it felt as if his eyebrow had been torn off.

  She looked at her son, sitting spraddle-legged on the walk in front of her door, his mouth moving like a goldfish’s, unable to do more than make hicking sounds as he tried to regain his breath. “Is he hurt bad?”

  “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him. He’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

  “Should we just leave him here?”

  “Since he assaulted both of us, I’d say his next stop should be jail.” His adrenaline ebbing, he softened his tone. “I think at least we should call the police. Is that all right with you?”

  Annie’s face puckered up, but she said, “I guess that would be the safest place for him.” She sighed. “He’s been in jail before, lots of times.”

  Cole looked up at her and held out both hands in a pleading gesture.

  “No, Cole, it’s way too late for that,” she said. “Way too late.”

  * * *

  THE next morning, the delicious smell of coffee woke Betsy. Since she didn’t have an automatic coffeemaker with a timer on it, she knew Connor was in her kitchen. She wondered what time he’d gotten home last night. It must have been pretty late, since he’d gone into his own apartment rather than wake her.

  She rolled onto her back and basked in the luxury of having someone else fix breakfast. In less than a minute there was a wobble on her mattress as Sophie jumped up for her morning cuddle.

  Sophie wasn’t the brightest cat in the world, but she had one virtue: She waited for signs of waking in her mistress before joining her in bed for a snuggle.

  “Good morning, Sophie-Dophie,” cooed Betsy, stroking the thick white fur with the tan and gray splotches on the head and back.

  Sophie mewed back in her tiny voice, incongruous in an animal that weighted twenty-two pounds. Then she collapsed heavily against Betsy’s side and began purring. Betsy stroked and tickled her for a few minutes, until the smell of bacon joined the scent of coffee, and she rolled out of bed.

  “Mew!” objected Sophie.

  “Sorry!” said Betsy.

  A few minutes later Betsy walked into the kitchen and was startled to see a magnificent shiner around Connor’s left eye.

  “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

  “Annie’s son Cole was waiting for us when we got to her place.”

  “He hit you? Why?”

  “He had taken his mother by the arms and was hurting her. I walked over and had the temerity to tell him to go away and not come back.”

  “Is Annie all right?”

  “Yes, she’s fine. He scared her more than hurt her.”

  “Did you hit him back?”

  “Yes, of course.” He seemed surprised she had to ask.

  Betsy said, “A knock-out blow?”

  “No. Long ago I got some good advice: ‘Hit the soft parts with your hand, the hard parts with a utensil.’ So I punched him in the stomach. He may have broken a knuckle hitting me, but my hand is whole this morning.” He held it out, opening and closing it, smiling reminiscently.

  Betsy paused a moment to adjust her attitude to this macho person occupying her kitchen, then came in for a hug. “I’m glad you were there for Annie. Where did Cole end up, or do you know?”

  “He’s in jail, charged with public drunkenness and assault. I figured it was best to get him on record for his behavior, and Annie agreed. She is going to apply for an order of protection against him. Now, are you ready for breakfast? I’m hungry as a hunter after my adventure of last night.”

  Betsy extracted more details of the event over bacon and soft-boiled eggs.

  “How did Annie take all this? Is she sad? Angry? Pleased?”

  “All of the above, plus embarrassed. Her ambition is to rise into the middle class, and in her opinion, middle-class people don’t have altercations in the street with drunk relatives.”

  “Oh, if only she knew,” sighed Betsy. “I hope Cole is properly ashamed of himself.”

  “Probably not. He didn’t get his breath back until after I’d called the police, and before they arrived he tried to convince me it was all a misunderstanding, that I should help him persuade Annie to let him go upstairs with her and sleep it off. Annie, bless her heart, said no way was he ever going to see the inside of her apartment. The two of us stood firm, and by the time the police took him away, he was angry but she was pretty cheerful. I like her. She’s brave and hard to keep down.”

  “Yes, she is.” Betsy took a closer look at Connor’s shiner. “I think maybe you should go to the doctor about that eye. It looks dreadful.”

  “No, it doesn’t need stitches. I’ve had black eyes before; they heal by themselves.”

  “But you look like a pirate.”

  “No amount of medicine can cure that.”

  Betsy gave up. She got dressed, kissed him, and went down to open the shop.

  Twenty-four

  RIGHT at ten, Annie called. She asked cautiously, “Have you seen Connor yet today?”

  “Yes, and he told me all about last night. You both behaved beautifully!”

  “I was scared, but Connor was a hero!” declared Annie. “Pow, right in the breadbasket!”

  �
�Oh, Annie!” Betsy said, thinking Annie was being a little callous.

  “Yeah, well, what can you do? He called me this morning.”

  “Connor?”

  “No, Cole. I told him the police explained to me how to apply for a restraining order against him, and that I’d be doing that today. He wanted me to post his bail, and I told him no way. He told me it would be just a loan, I should help him because he sold his car for the price of a bus ticket to Minneapolis, but right then I hung up on him.”

  “This must be very difficult for you.”

  Annie sighed, her cheerfulness ebbing. “Oh, it is, it is. But lots of things are hard to do, especially if they’re the right thing. My son has spent his whole life making that bed, now he has to lay down on it. I would like for you to tell Connor he’s a real peach, and I will tell anyone who thinks to get up against him that they’re making a big mistake. Pow, right in the breadbasket!” Annie’s words were brave, but there were tears in her voice.

  Betsy laughed, but she felt like crying, too. “I will, Annie. I think you’re very brave and very tough, too. I want you to do something nice for yourself today, okay? And if you need anything, you let me know.”

  “You did the best thing for me, already, when you told Connor to drive me home last night. Thank you very much.”

  Godwin came in late—a new habit he’d developed since moving with Rafael into the gray clapboard condo right across the street. Being sixty seconds from work makes being on time harder for some people. But he got right to work.

  Later that morning, he began marking down prices on some cross-stitch patterns going on sale. “I didn’t think the fireworks were quite as good as last year, did you?” he asked Betsy.

  “Hmmm?” she said. She was pulling yarn for a needlepoint canvas a customer had ordered.

  “Fireworks,” prompted Godwin. “Weren’t you at the display last night?”

  “Sure. I thought they had too many of those loud ones.”

  “And didn’t you think the display wasn’t quite as good as last year’s?”