Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  And now, my kid had seen fatal shots fired by a sniper. She’d witnessed the raw fear that moved a crowd to stampede. What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t know because I couldn’t tell her—was that her father’s killer had put a contract out on her mother.

  Suddenly, a sense of panic overwhelmed me. If I were to die, where would Anya go? Would she be accepted by Robbie? Would he and Sheila raise her as their own? I’d made plans for Sheila to be her guardian. But that was before Sheila became engaged to Robbie. I hadn’t thought to revisit my decision with them both.

  And I needed to.

  This wasn’t the sort of life I’d envisioned when I brought a child into this world. Before I could stop myself, I started crying, too.

  Thirty-four

  “Thanks for the memories,” snarled Sheila as she dropped me off back at the store. “We’re off to have fun with your mother.”

  “Not my fault,” I muttered as I slammed the heavy door on the Mercedes extra hard. “I’ll get back to your house as soon as possible. I need to drop by the Fitzgeralds’ house.”

  I paused. “Look, Sheila, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Really, I apologize. I wanted this to be a happy event for you.”

  She sighed. “I know. Look, I shouldn’t have snapped at Anya.”

  We both glanced over at my daughter who was curled up in the back seat sound asleep. She’d cried buckets, dissolved into hiccups, dried her tears, eaten frozen custard from Ted Drewes, and conked out on us.

  “We’re all overtired and overwrought,” I said. “This sniper incident was bad enough, but my mother adds to the strain.”

  Sheila nodded. “Even though I don’t like the woman, she is your mother, and I respect that. I know Robbie wants you at my place. I think I can guess why.”

  I didn’t respond because I didn’t know how much he wanted her to know.

  “Please share my condolences with Peter and Deanna. Edwina was a hard woman, but she contributed a lot to the CALA community,” Sheila said. From her that was high praise. Sheila loved CALA. My name wasn’t on the donor’s list, but hers certainly was.

  “I’ll try to get back to your place as soon as possible,” I said.

  “And I’ll try not to wring your mother’s neck before you arrive. If you do walk in and catch me choking her, take your time dialing nine-one-one.”

  With that, Sheila roared off into the sunset.

  Thirty-five

  After repairing my makeup, I grabbed several sample albums, the envelope of photos, and drove over to Peter and Deanna Fitzgerald’s home. A long paved driveway, lined with impatiens in various colors, led me to a secluded portico and a honking big structure. I figured the house’s square footage at five thousand, but later learned it was actually ten thousand square feet if you counted the guest house and the full basement.

  A man opened the door. His weather-beaten skin showed the sort of leathery texture from years of being in the outdoors. His neatly ironed plaid shirt and faded jeans were tidy, but his scuffed work boots had seen better days.

  “Hi. I’m Kiki Lowenstein. I believe Mrs. Fitzgerald is expecting me.”

  “This is a bad time for visitors.” He blocked the doorway, his tired eyes measuring me and finding me no challenge.

  “Yes, and I’m sorry to disturb the household.” I didn’t yield an inch. “As I said, she’s expecting me.”

  “You can wait here,” he showed me into the foyer.

  Because of my former life and Sheila’s longstanding involvement in the arts community and charities, I’ve been a guest in a lot of houses in Ladue. But none of those places seemed as purposefully designed and decorated to intimidate as this one. The cavernous marble entryway magnified every sound. Over my head dangled an enormous gold and crystal chandelier. In the center of the space sat a round walnut table, buffed to a high polish to reflect a tall ceramic vase full of fragrant fresh freesia, star lilies, birds of paradise, and palms.

  “Deanna says come on back,” said my greeter. He led the way along a wide hallway with carpeting so thick and plush that I nearly toppled over as my shoes sank into it. Deanna was seated in the middle of a sitting room, staring into a formal fireplace where a crackling fire burned. She barely looked up when I came in.

  “Hello, Deanna,” I said and she nodded toward me. “Please accept my condolences. I am so sorry for your loss. My mother-in-law, Sheila, asked me to convey her sympathies as well.”

  She responded by turning away.

  “How’s Peter?” I asked.

  “He’s in pain,” she said without looking at me.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” I said to my minder. I stuck out my hand in a most aggressive manner before he could move away from me.

  As punishment, he gave my fingers the sort of squeeze designed to make me cry out. But I didn’t. “Derrick Roper. I’m Deanna’s brother.”

  “Did you come down for the May Day ceremony?” I managed through gritted teeth. “I don’t remember seeing you there. Of course, everything is a blur now.”

  “Got here a few days before,” he said, and then he stopped. “Is this a social call?”

  Maybe I was born mean, but I took a seat even though I hadn’t been offered one. I sank back into a large chintz wingback chair. I competed with two overstuffed pillows, festooned with yards and yards of silk braid and tassels.

  Derrick Roper moved over to stand behind his sister, with one big hand on her shoulder. Meanwhile, Deanna turned to stare at me, seeming as silent and judgmental as that carved statue of Lincoln inside his monument. Her huge diamond splashed rainbows across the walls.

  “I’ll try not to take long, but as Lane Carlée probably told you, CALA wants me to make a memorial album commemorating your late mother-in-law’s life.”

  Derrick coughed softly into his hand.

  Deanna’s face stayed expressionless.

  “The school gave me access to their archives, but I don’t have any candid pictures of Mrs. Fitzgerald,” I said. “I hoped to get one or two as well as a few family portraits.”

  “How come?” asked Derrick. “How come you can’t use what they give you?”

  “I’m sure those will work fine,” said Deanna.

  This was a tussle of wills. Logic suggested they were mourning and I should bow to their wishes. But I was tired of giving in to other people. Besides, I wasn’t about to return to Lane Carlée and explain I had no materials to work with. Not after I’d gone out of my way to convince her that I knew what I was doing.

  “No, it won’t be fine. I need family photos, candid shots of you all interacting as a family. The school commissioned this as their way of saying ‘thank you’ to your family.”

  “That school—” started Derrick, but his sister cut him off.

  “That’s totally unnecessary. My mother-in-law did what she did because she loves—loved—CALA more than anything else in her life.”

  Did I detect a note of bitterness? Yessirree, I sure did.

  “I know. I heard she was very generous to the school, and we all appreciate it.”

  Her face flickered, the way a candle blinks in the wind.

  “Look, I realize this is a difficult time for you,” I continued. “I know you’ve been through a lot. If you have family albums, just let me borrow those. I’ll copy the photos I need, and return everything intact. Then I won’t bother you anymore.”

  Deanna considered this. A muscle flickered in her jaw. “You are Sheila Lowenstein’s daughter-in-law?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she as a mother-in-law? Is she nice to you? Does she accept you?”

  This strange question took me aback. “Um, she’s very good to my daughter. She and I get along fine.”

  “Really?” Deanna raised an eyebrow. “S
he’s a perfectionist. Mrs. Fitzgerald was, too. People like them can be hard. You can’t please them.”

  Her syntax hinted at her rural roots. She pronounced “can’t” like “cain’t.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. It can be—trying.”

  “Does she help you out? With money and all?” Derrick’s eyes pinned me down like I was a butterfly on a bulletin board.

  “On occasion.” Was it that obvious? Did I look that shabby? The weather still cycled rapidly from chilly to warm and back again. After checking the forecast today and learning it would be coolish, I put on a brown skirt I’d found at Goodwill, a cream knit sweater, and a large beaded necklace that I’d made myself. Brown tights and low shoes completed my outfit.

  In contrast, the slub silk of Deanna’s black dress screamed expensive designer.

  What prompted Deanna’s question? Had she heard how Sheila paid for Anya’s tuition, books, and clothes? Sheila often shared more than I thought prudent. Certainly, she didn’t seem to consider what might embarrass me. Her focus was on how she looked. Not my feelings.

  I amended my answer. “A lot, actually. Sheila helps me a lot.”

  “You get paid for this?” asked Derrick. “This playing with pictures?”

  He pronounced the word “pit-churs.”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is my job. I’m a single mom.”

  Deanna came to a decision. “Can you make up large photos of Mrs. Fitzgerald? I mean for tomorrow, to display at the funeral home? I’ll pay you.”

  “Of course.” Lane had asked me to meet her at the funeral home with the memorial albums so she could present one to the Fitzgerald family right after the service. I would have to arrive a little earlier than I’d planned to set up the photos, but that wasn’t a big deal. Besides, I could use the money. So I added, “I’ve done this before, and I know just what to do. You’ll be very pleased with the result.”

  “Derrick, take her to Peter’s office. Get her the albums.”

  I followed him into a masculine room with a big desk and walnut paneling. To cover my awkwardness, I tried to make conversation. “How’s Peter handling the loss of his mother?”

  “What do you expect? He’s sad, of course.” Derrick grabbed a handful of leather-bound albums and held them out for me.

  “Of course.” Who are we fooling? I thought to myself.

  Thirty-six

  I spent the rest of the afternoon touching up photos, designing, and creating Edwina’s memorial album. Since we stocked albums in all the local school colors, I selected a royal blue and gold leather binder. Next I started on the interior design work.

  Every fifteen minutes, Margit would come and stare over my shoulder. She would mutter to herself in a discouraged tone. At one point, Margit clucked her tongue. “What a Schlamassel.”

  Whatever.

  Nietzsche said, “One must have chaos within one’s self to give birth to a dancing star.” I know from experience that negative thinking can douse the spark of creativity. I kept playing, letting the child within me explore different combinations, until finally, I happened upon one that worked beautifully.

  We carried a calla lily image that I stamped, hand-colored, and duplicated onto nice paper. To add dimension, I twisted paper coffee filters into the shape of the flowers. When glued to the stamped and colored images, these created 3-D blossoms.

  I also selected a shield shape, representative of the CALA school shield, and made multiple journaling boxes from it.

  Finally, I devised a border. After sewing a gathering stitch down the middle of a wide piece of royal blue ribbon, I drew it taut. This yielded a puckered satin ruffle that worked perfectly for the bottom of the pages.

  To pull these items together, I matted the photos of Edwina and family on a subtle royal blue print, and then on gold paper. My background paper was a royal blue and gold print. The resulting base pages were both classic in their simplicity and yet complex enough to hold your attention.

  “Wunderbar!” Margit said, startling me. I had been so wrapped up in my work that I hadn’t noticed her peering over my shoulder. “Das beste, was man sich nur denken kann.”

  “In English, please.” I stepped away from my work table to study the title page. I always add a title page to the front of any album. Besides listing the contents in order, it also details why the album was made, who commissioned it, and finally it documents me as the creator and gives the date finished. Without that elementary information, no one knows the vantage point of the assemblage, and yes, we all see the world differently so that’s important.

  “That means ‘the best one could possibly imagine.’ That’s what you have done. It’s simply wunderbar.” She clasped her hands to her chest, her round face aglow with delight. “Dodie told me you had a talent. I could not see it. I wondered if she was mistaken. Now I know she was quite correct. This thing you do, with paper and trinkets, it is quite nice. This woman is dead, is she not? What a tribute to her. Her family will cherish this.”

  “That’s the general idea. These other photos will be on display at the funeral tomorrow. They’ll serve as a reminder of her life.”

  “Tomorrow? What time?”

  “I need to drop this off tomorrow around two-thirty. I’m scheduled to work all afternoon, so you’ll have to switch shifts with me.”

  “Nein, I told Dodie, I must have Monday afternoons, Wednesday afternoons off. Sunday also.”

  Brother. Why was I the only person who had to be flexible? Huh?

  “Hey, I’m not asking for myself. The client requested that I set up the photos, and Lane over at CALA asked me to bring these albums to her before the memorial service. Dodie told me to make this happen. Surely, you can switch with me just this once.”

  “Absolutely not!” Margit gave her head such a violent shake that her glasses slipped down her nose. She smacked her fist on the desk top. “I was very clear on this. I will not work on Monday or Wednesday afternoon or on Sunday.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. I was just too tired to care.

  Thirty-seven

  By the time I pulled into Sheila’s driveway, my head pounded like a scrapbooker setting eyelets with a hammer. I dragged my sorry self up the walkway, through the back door, and into the kitchen. Gracie rose from her bed, a soft cushion that Linnea had insisted she have.

  The sounds from the TV in Sheila’s room drifted down through the ceiling. I figured that she and Robbie were having a private moment. I hoped they were. Between their upcoming wedding, the sniper attack, and my darling mother’s visit, my mother-in-law and her intended were coping with a lot of stress. But they made a good couple. Robbie exuded a manly steadiness, and Sheila provided a generous helping of zing. They complemented each other. More and more I noticed how they turned to each other for support.

  I envied them. To me, the best part of being married is knowing that someone is there for you. Even though George and I had our problems, I could always depend on him. He was always in my corner. He never spoke ill of me in public, he took my side, and he listened to my opinion. With a few notable exceptions, we treated each other with great courtesy. Perhaps because we weren’t in love, we didn’t fall out of love. We were partners in almost every aspect of our lives.

  My stomach rumbled. I needed food. There were cups, plates, dinnerware, and glasses on every surface. Pots and pans littered the granite countertop. Empty cans tilted precariously in the recycling bin and tattled that dinner tonight had been soup. An empty bag of Payday candy bars sat in the sink. Those must have been Mom’s snacks, because she loves Paydays.

  I missed Linnea. She would have left the kitchen spotless and a meal for me warming in the oven. She would have made me a fresh batch of Snickerdoodles, too.

  The refrigerator shelves held nothing but a carton of cottage cheese. I grabbed
that, opened a can of peaches, and ate the impromptu fruit salad for dinner. As the nourishment flowed through my system, my energy rebounded. I began to feel almost human again.

  I text-messaged Clancy, “Need help tomorrow afternoon at store. Can u come at noon?”

  Halfway through loading the dishwasher, I felt my phone vibrating. “See you then. C.”

  Slinging my backpack over one shoulder, I trudged up the stairs with Gracie following closely behind me. After a quick shower, I settled onto the big, comfortable bed and glanced through the Fitzgerald family albums Deanna had loaned me.

  Like most albums, the pictures followed a chronological order. Someone had taken the time and care to slip photos into photo corners. That was good, because it would make removing photos easier.

  I stared at old baby photos with names and dates under them. Two sour-faced people held a baby in a white christening dress that draped over the woman’s arms. Beneath them, a thin script labeled the photo as, “Edwina Rose Lichbaden,” and offered her date of birth. Later shots of Edwina showed her arm-in-arm with her CALA chums. In one picture, she wielded a field hockey stick while wearing a fearsome expression of concentration on her face. In another, she wore the traditional white bridal gown that senior girls wear for the May Day celebration. Even though the foxing blurred the image, I saw the pearls and gems covered the bodice. Belatedly I realized she was holding the huge bouquet given to one special girl, the Queen of the May Day celebration.

  A few pages later on the occasion of her own wedding, she wore a simple silk gown with tiers of lace. Sad to say, it seemed somehow anti-climatic.

  Another album held photos of Edwina’s husband, Gergen Fitzgerald. While this volume was considerably thinner, it still chronicled his life. Gergen must have come from a modest background. There were no pony rides, no fancy clothes, no formal events. But he did appear quite dapper wearing an Army uniform.