Concrete Angel

by Patricia Abbott

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, but it was bound to be bad for my mother, and I stuck my tongue out at her. I didn’t waver in support of Mother.

  Aunt Linda moved in while Mother was gone. In her own more benign way, she was as unbalanced as my mother. Our days were spent in languid contemplation of the offerings on the television schedule, the ebb and flow of street traffic, the grocery aisles at the A & P, the local candy store’s showcases. I didn’t mind spending time with Aunt Linda nearly as much as my mother did. I found her restful. Especially since, unlike the rest or her family, she never said a bad word about Mother. After a few days, we hardly mentioned her at all.

  “So do you think we should have the beef or the chicken Hungry Man?” she’d say contemplatively, peering into the freezer, cold air rushing into her red face. Such decisions merited the same degree of thought as the question of what we’d watch on TV; answers to such questions were not to be rushed.

  We were well-stocked with every frozen entrée of the era as well as the entire line of Pepperidge Farm desserts. Aunt Linda could finish off an entire cheesecake in fifteen minutes, not bothering to cut it into slices, forking into one side and eating her way across. She made it feel like the proper way to have dessert—whoever heard of saving some for later? Sometimes she’d ice a cheesecake with some jam or colored sugar, upping the sweetness a bit.

  “I learned this trick at the women’s circle at church,” she told me.

  Aunt Linda’d gone from plump to fat in the six years since she’d chaperoned Mother in Doylestown. It didn’t bother her in the least. I never knew a person more at ease with herself, and I soon began to look like Aunt Linda’s child. Little rolls of fat ribboned my thighs in only a few weeks.

  “I told your daddy we could get by on our own,” she said, explaining the absence of Mrs. Murphy. “I’ve learned a bit about cooking since I last lived with your parents.”

  She had learned a few things; she could defrost and heat anything she found in the freezer. She was quite adept at shopping for sauces to “jazz up” duller dishes.

  “Whoever heard of chicken without milk gravy?” she’d say, peppering the frozen fried chicken with heavy canned gravy. There were also powdered sauces should we get bored with the canned selections. Convenience trumped taste or nutrition in the late sixties, and Aunt Linda served few dishes that weren’t covered with some sort of sauce.

  “Nothing worse than a dried-up piece of meat,” she’d say, lathering on béchamel, Hollandaise, or sweet and sour.

  After lunch, we’d walk the three blocks to the main thoroughfare and buy an ice cream cone or a sundae. “A little exercise can’t hurt us.”

  Linda would stretch out on the too-flimsy bench outside of the ice-cream shop, dipping her bright pink tongue into the pink or green or peach ice cream. The bench undulated with her weight, and I watched, partly worried and partly fascinated as she constantly adjusted her position to keep all four legs of the bench grounded. The proprietor peeked out the window, probably worried about actionable accidents or the demise of his bench. But since we were his most loyal customers, his only ones some days, he was forced to accept it. Aunt Linda didn’t notice his fretfulness, completely engrossed in the sweet before her.

  She went through their entire menu of flavors and choices during the months she stayed with me. I always chose something with chocolate.

  “You need to branch out, Christine. You’re missing some of life’s greatest pleasures. Try pistachio or cherry vanilla.”

  If life with Mother had been exciting and unpredictable, life with Aunt Linda was quiet and held no nasty surprises. She was completely satisfied with being what she was—a spinster aunt, the unmarried daughter of a rich man, a gourmand of epic proportions. I liked this about her. Where Mother exhaled her dissatisfaction, Aunt Linda inhaled stasis with content. She was as indulgent with me as my mother had been, but without the fits or tempers. It was a time of serenity, and I breathed it in. We might not engage in exciting adventures but life with her had its pleasures.

  Physical contact was problematic though. Climbing into bed with Aunt Linda was out of the question. She needed every inch of space the double bed provided, so I was forced to sleep alone. Sitting in her lap was a battle between quickly finding a valley or tumbling to the floor.

  “Whoops,” she’d say, scooping me up. “You’re a slippery little girl.”

  Despite my love of Aunt Linda, some of the shine did go out of my life during Mother’s hospitalization. The sparkly things were gone. Daddy was away more than ever. Neither Aunt Linda nor I knew what to do with him when he was around. He interrupted the schedule we’d worked out by wanting to eat sensible meals and take exercise. He expected us to talk about more important things than what scheme Samantha had in mind to foil Darren or Endora on Bewitched. There was more on his mind than what ice cream flavor Aunt Linda should try next. More to think about than what Cissy Burt was up to at the Country Club wearing a bare-midriff dress to dinner. He disapproved of the pile of gossipy magazines always next to Aunt Linda’s chair, of the empty dishes filling the tabletops in the mornings, the endless wailing of the TV.

  I’m sure he wondered if Mother had been right about Linda. Yet the peace and my contentedness convinced him she should stay. We got by. Perhaps there were no women who could satisfy Daddy, as Mother often said.

  When Mother returned home after nearly three months in Shock Corridor, she was different: no longer interested in keeping a perfect house, not as manic, nor much fun. She was perfectly quiet for the first few weeks. Probably her brain needed time to unfurl itself from the fetal position it’d taken throughout her treatment. Her interest in being a CEO’s wife was completely gone. We didn’t drive to Ocean City, New Jersey to eat cotton candy and French fries on the boardwalk for breakfast. We didn’t make crazy costumes from the remnant table at The Sewing Bee. She wasn’t nearly as much fun as she’d been a year ago, but was certainly in better shape than three months earlier.

  What did arise was her need to shop. But how to do it without getting caught? This was when Mother, with a grim determination and an innate inventiveness, came up with the “return” business.

  It began at Grandmother Hobart’s house. It was someone’s birthday, but I can’t remember whose. Mother punished Grandmother those first few weeks after her return, not answering the telephone, blaming Grandmother Hobart for allowing Daddy to commit her to such a place, for not visiting her, for letting Aunt Linda take care of me. Her list of grievances was enormous and her subdued demeanor off-putting.

  I crept around the house, avoiding her whenever I could, careful not to do anything to annoy her, although what that might be remained mysterious. She was a new person and I’d no idea how to handle her. After the weeks with Aunt Linda and the peace I’d grown used to, her behavior was especially scary. Aunt Linda had planned our day around food and joint activities. Mother never ate, mostly stayed in her room, and scowled at those she deemed responsible for her incarceration. Apparently at six, I wasn’t completely immune.

  “You were practically in a coma the times I did come, Eve,” Grandmother Hobart said in defense. “I came home completely in despair, unable to do my housekeeping or care for your father—and well—he refused to even speak of it.” Mother rolled her eyes. She had yet to accuse her mother of anything specific, but it hung in the air.

  My eyes went to Grandfather’s place at the table. It was already set for his dinner. He loomed over this household: his was the only padded seat, the only chair with arms. No one could sit there even in his absence.

  But things between my mother and grandmother had slowly returned to normal, whatever normal was in our family, and we were sitting at the kitchen table digging into the same lemon cake with coconut icing Grandmother Hobart made for every birthday or special occasion. It was an exceedingly dry cake, a piece of pastry crying out for a scoop of ice cream, but my grandmother thought such additions excessive. I’d proposed ice cream earlier an
d been promptly told ice cream would make it too rich for a girl of my size.

  “I put less icing on your side of the cake too,” Grandmother said, eyeing my burgeoning bulk. “Doesn’t do to give into a love for sugary treats at your age. It’ll dog you your whole life.”

  She looked at me sternly, and I tucked myself further under the table. I was still coming off the Aunt Linda regime, and her words fell on me like hammers from the sky. My grandmother felt little need to endear herself to me through compliments and favorite treats. Children needed a firm hand. It might not have worked with my mother, but I was a difference case.

  “That’s what comes from having a self-indulgent woman care for you.”

  I looked at Mother, ready to watch her mount a defense, but then I realized Grandmother meant Aunt Linda.

  “I didn’t notice you stepping in to help out while I was away,” Mother said finally, getting it out into the open and bringing an abrupt end to her period of unspoken recriminations.

  Grandmother was not used to hearing herself publicly criticized. Her mouth opened once or twice as if a defense was forthcoming, but it never did.

  I spent a lot of time at their house over the next few years. When I was there, I could easily imagine where my mother’s need to hoard came from. It was a cheerless house, and Mother had had to invent a way to overcome it. I passively accepted the dullness, using her role model to keep me in check.

  My mother was slightly allergic to the coconut in the cake and a light rash broke out around her mouth as she continued to eat her paper-thin slice. She never turned down sweets the only food she cared about. So she persevered, her throat slightly raspy after a few minutes.

  “Did you put vanilla extract in here?” she asked her mother. “Tastes more like nuts.”

  “Very good, Evelyn,” Grandmother said. “Almonds. You’re developing a palate. Perhaps you’ll become a cook yet.”

  “Why did you use almond?” Mother sniffed at her piece. “Almond would be more for a spice cake. Right?”

  I was impressed by how much my mother knew about baking considering she hadn’t so much as baked me a brownie. “What’s a bakery for?” she’d say if anyone suggested such a thing. Or, “you can’t beat a good old Tastykake.”

  Grandmother’s bravado broke down a little here. “You’ve certainly become quite an expert in pastry ingredients.” She sat a bit straighter in her chair, playing with her slice of cake rather than eating it, looking at it more critically.

  I began to eat quickly, fearing the cake might be whisked away any second. It was odd-tasting, but there was nothing wrong with its sugar content.

  Grandmother sighed, rose suddenly, and walked to the cabinet over the sink. She pulled out a little box, withdrawing the bottle of vanilla inside.

  “I can’t get the cap off the vanilla. I think it’s off the track.” She yanked at it, nearly elbowing herself in the process.

  “Let me see.” Mother grabbed the jar and twisted the top fruitlessly for several seconds before passing it back. “You’ll have to take it back to the A & P and demand a refund.”

  “Oh, you would make a big fuss over such a small purchase. What did it cost? Pennies.”

  “You deserve a refund.” Mother reached over and slid her finger across the top of the cake. Grandmother didn’t say a word, but Mother, not expecting silence, defended her iced finger. “Oh, the cake’s ruined anyway. Where’s the harm?”

  “They’ll tell me it’s a manufacturing problem or something I did wrong,” Grandmother said, ignoring Mother’s finger. “And if I want reimbursement, I’ll have to write the company. The store won’t admit any fault.” Grandmother peered farsightedly at the bottle. “I’ve been through things like this before.”

  “Which is why you have to take action at once. I’ll write the letter.”

  Mother reached for her purse and took out a pen and an old deposit slip from the bank to scratch out a rough version. “You’ve gotta give ‘em hell. I know how it’s done.” And she did apparently.

  Two weeks later, Grandmother was hammering at our door, an unusual occurrence. “You’re not going to believe the nice note I got from Meadow Fresh,” she said, breathless with excitement. “Remember Meadow Fresh—that faulty bottle of vanilla? Writing was a good idea, Evelyn.” The note of respect in her voice made me smile.

  “Just a note?” Mother said. “Didn’t they give you a coupon? Or a refund check?”

  “You’re not going to believe this, but they sent me an entire case of vanilla extract! Did you ever hear of such a thing? A whole case! I’ll have to give it away at church or something. They’ll think I’ve gone senile, carting vanilla extract around. Isn’t it the stuff alcoholics drink? I don’t guess you’ll be needing any?”

  Mother declined her offer and went off to sit in her favorite chair in the living room to think.

  At first, Mother actually bought the merchandise. Knowing one returned can of hairspray might possibly net a carton of twelve cans, it felt like small potatoes to purchase a can. And that familiar red can was her first return: Aquanet hairspray, which she took a pair of pliers to, bending the nozzle slightly. She packaged it, including a sweet, slightly apologetic note.

  Dear Sir:

  I have been a lifelong admirer and purchaser of your excellent product, which has kept my hair tidy through thick and thin. Imagine my disappointment today when I tried to press the nozzle on a brand new can and it didn’t work. It was actually bent. I thought I should advise you of this flaw in your product.

  Yours truly,

  Mrs. Eve Moran

  She included the receipt for the item. Two weeks later, a case of Aquanet arrived. Twelve cans to be stockpiled for future use. Aquanet Hairspray was not the kind of thing my mother craved, but the less money spent on household items, the more money that could be given over to sparkly things. Over the next months, dozens of cartons arrived with beauty products, kitchen products, bathroom products, and the various odd things Mother took a fancy to. Some people might say six dozen boxes of swizzle sticks was overkill, but when Mother wrote the manufacturer that a chipped stick had cut a guest’s tongue, what could they do? I was able to use some of them on projects for school.

  It was exciting, if worrisome, to see Mother reinvent herself. She’d gone from a mental patient to an entrepreneur practically overnight. The color in her cheeks rose, her posture improved, and I watched with only a small degree of trepidation. Her newly minted control persuaded me.

  Not all of the manufacturers fell into line. Some ignored her letter; others sent an apology with a small coupon; some, a paltry refund check for the exact amount. And when she made the mistake of hitting the same company twice, she received a threatening letter instead of the expected window cleaner. After that, she decided a filing system was required.

  “This is a damned good way for you to learn the alphabet,” Mother said as she sat me at the table with a box of manila file folders.

  I was six perhaps and knew the alphabet, of course.

  “Find the file folder with the letter the company’s name begins with. Tuck the letter inside. See, A for Aquanet.”

  After only a few months of this enterprise, she’d amassed a pile of paperwork. Soon she was making copies of her letters at the nearest branch of the library. “No sense forgetting what I said to them.” She turned out to have significant organizational skills, which had never been tapped.

  And I was good at numbers. My future as a low-level office worker was assured. I didn’t mind the business’ prosaic nature; it was nearly as good as my time with Aunt Linda or my early days with Mother. She grew happier with each delivery, and I enjoyed my new status as a member of her gang: anything winning Mother’s approval was gravy to me.

  “Daddy doesn’t need to know about this,” she said as she tried to shove another carton in a closet.

  Our house in Shelterville, with its three-car garage in the rear, was testing Mother’s ability to store her goods. “Let’s have a
little yard sale,” she decided one day and hung out a sign.

  Daddy was playing golf probably. Even on Saturdays he was seldom available to us before dinnertime, claiming he made important contacts on the green.

  Mother didn’t want to be caught in yet another scheme to accrue merchandise, and an ad in the paper would do just that. Daddy read the local gazette from front to back, having a contract with the company to supply its paper. But she quickly found she could attract a fair number of customers by merely sitting outside in a pink two-piece bathing suit—not a common sight in an upscale suburb.

  “It’s so darn hot today,” she said to her first customer, fanning her damp chest. “Can I pour you some lemonade?”

  It was a middle-aged man who’d braked with a squeal when he spotted her.

  “I bet we have loads of stuff your wife would find useful.” Mother handed him a glass of lemonade as he stood open-mouthed at the table. “There are so many items it’s foolish to pay retail prices for.” She waved her hand over the table top. “You’ll net quite a savings here.”

  He shook his stupor off, saying, “Helen could probably use some scouring powder. Or maybe a package of vacuum bags. Helen’s my wife,” he explained, looking around hungrily. “Always running out of Ajax, my Helen.”

  “I’m sure Helen could use vacuum bags and Ajax,” Mother said, stuffing both items into a bag, “but wouldn’t she love it if you came home with some bath salts—something just for her.”

  She laughed her most womanly laugh and handed him a jar. His eyes filled with doubt. Mother had cut the prices, if only slightly, from what was asked for in stores, but these were pricey bath salts. She seldom bothered with the low-end beauty products.

  “I have three scents,” she told him. “But I bet she’s a lilac girl.”

  The man watched slack-jawed as she bent over and retrieved a larger jar from under the table.