Tending Roses

by Wingate, Lisa

  Grandma saw the papers and calculator and was curious about what I was doing. Then she grew irritated with me for having everything spread out on the table, especially when it got in her way during supper. After we were finished, she informed me that her ankles told her a cold front was coming, and she was going to the little house to soak her feet and work on her article for the Monday printing of the local paper. No edition ever went to press without the Baptist Buzz by Bernice Vongortler.

  I worked on the bills and the figures until my eyes started to cross and my brain hurt; then I stacked everything up and put it away, still wondering if I should talk to Ben about it. By the time I finally got in touch with him, it had all started to seem like a ridiculous fantasy. I chickened out and didn’t say anything important. Nothing about Joshua and my job, nothing about Grandma leaving the propane on, nothing about Ben and me possibly selling the boat and giving up the plans for a bigger house. Mostly, I talked about nothing. Ben didn’t even seem to notice. On the other end of the line, I could hear him muttering calculations and rustling papers, working as he pretended to listen to what I was saying. I knew there wasn’t much point in talking. His mind was on the job and not on me.

  The noise of a car backfiring on the farm highway caught my attention, and I listened as it passed by, the engine sputtering as if it wouldn’t make it up the hill.

  The sound tugged a memory from somewhere deep in my mind. “Ben, do you remember that old yellow car we had in college?” I wasn’t sure why I asked the question. “What kind of car was that?”

  “What, hon?” More papers rustling, then a momentary pause. “I didn’t hear what you said. What about Grandma’s car?”

  “No. Not Grandma’s car. I was talking about that old yellow car we had in college. What kind of car was that?”

  “The yellow one?” A note of curiosity entered his voice, and silence came from the other end of the line. For the first time, I felt as if he was really hearing me.

  “Yes. The yellow one. A car just went by that sounded just like it. It made me think of the old yellow car.”

  Ben chuckled—a deep, warm sound that made me feel as if he were right beside me. “Wow. I haven’t thought about that thing in years. It was a Firebird. Remember, James used to call it ‘Big Bird’? ”

  “Well, James had a Beemer from his dad, so he could afford to make fun,” I pointed out, remembering how Ben’s friend had everything in college while Ben and I were practically destitute. Ben’s parents didn’t have any money to help him with college, and mine weren’t inclined to pay for a degree in something as impractical as environmental science. They wanted me to attend medical school. Aside from that, they didn’t want to pay any expenses for me while Ben and I were living together, so we just went our own way, worked part-time jobs, and scrounged the best we could. At the time, it seemed like a terrible struggle, having no money. Strange that now I was looking back on those years fondly.

  Ben’s laugh broke into my thoughts. “Yeah, but we had more fun in that old yellow car than James did in his slick Beemer. That car had personality.”

  “Is that what you call it when you can see the road passing through the holes in the floorboard?”

  We laughed together and both ended in a wistful sigh. Ben chuckled again. “Remember on our honeymoon when Big Bird broke down at the Canadian border and we pitched our tent in the park there by the road?” Another wistful exhaled breath. “That was one great night.”

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “Ben, what are you talking about—great? We woke up in the morning smack in the middle of a Harley biker rally. Big guys in black leather and tattoos everywhere. We were scared to death.”

  “Yeah, but before the bikers showed up, that was some night.”

  I remembered, and blushed red from head to toe. “O.K. You’re right. It was.”

  “Um-hum.” A low, passionate sound. “Besides, the bikers weren’t so bad. They fixed Big Bird for us.”

  “Oh, you’re right. I forgot about that!” I laughed, the scene coming back with comical clarity—two petrified college kids standing on the side of the highway while a half-dozen leather-clad Samaritans debated what was wrong with Big Bird. In the end, they sent us on our way with a greasy handshake and a slightly used Harley bandanna holding together the battery cables.

  “That really was a great trip,” Ben said wistfully. “We should do that again someday.”

  “We should,” I agreed. “Without the bikers.” But I knew we never would. We wouldn’t find the time, and we wouldn’t find the money, and it just wouldn’t end up happening. Still, it felt so good to talk about it, to laugh and remember. I wanted to keep him on the phone all night, as I had that first year after college, when he had started traveling with his job, and he would call and we would talk and talk and talk.

  “We could plan . . .” Ben paused, and I heard noises in the background, then someone talking. When he came back on the line, his voice was different. “Kate, James is here to look over some things. I’ve got to go.”

  “All right,” I said.

  We said good-bye and the moment was over. After I hung up the phone, I went to bed, thinking about Ben and me in the old yellow car, driving the highway to Canada without a care in the world.

  I fell asleep to the sound of the old family clock ticking on the mantel in the living room. Grandma must have sneaked around and wound it again. Now it would chime all night, every hour and half hour, echoing through the house. But the ticking faded, and I drifted into someplace dark and quiet, peaceful . . .

  “Katie . . . Katie . . .” The sound of a voice floated through the dark stillness in my mind. “Katie . . . Wake up!”

  My body lurched to consciousness, and I struggled to sit up, blinking into the darkness as my heart pounded like a hammer in my throat.

  Dazed, I looked at Ben’s side of the bed and remembered he was gone. I glanced at the clock. Twelve-forty. I must have dreamed that someone was calling me.

  “Katie, wake up.” The call came again from the hallway, demanding and urgent.

  “Grandma?” I jumped up and rushed across the room, my mind spinning a web of terrifying reasons why she might be knocking at my bedroom door in the middle of the night. Throwing open the door, I stood blinking, blinded by the hallway lights. “Grandma, what’s wrong?”

  She motioned nervously across the hall to the open bathroom door. “There were three rolls of toilet paper under the sink last week. Have you moved them? I have looked and looked, but they are nowhere to be found.”

  “Toilet paper?” I stammered, my vision clearing so that I could see the nervous twitch of her lips as she waited for my answer. “I don’t know. I guess we used it up.”

  “That couldn’t be,” she insisted, looking desperate. “We could not possibly have used so much in a few days.”

  Rubbing my forehead, I tried to comprehend the conversation and why we were having it in the hallway at midnight. “I’m sure we did. We can buy some more toilet paper tomorrow.”

  “Almost a whole package in less than one week,” she stammered, looking horrified. “It’s too much down the septic. That pipe will back up in the basement.”

  Taking a deep breath, I fought to control my overtired temper. “Grandma, please,” I pleaded. “Just go back to bed. The plumbing is fine. Do you know what time it is? It’s after midnight.”

  “Benjamin should go down and check the pipes. We’ll have to call a plumber before the basement floods.”

  “The basement is fine. I was down there this afternoon getting potatoes, remember? It’s fine. Go to bed.”

  “But Benjamin could . . .”

  “He isn’t here!” I snapped, hitting the end of my rope with a twang. “He’s out of town.”

  Grandma backed up a step, then stood looking around my shoulder at the empty bed. “Oh,” she muttered. “Oh . . . I . . . I must have forgotten. Well, perhaps I should leave him a note to check the pipe when he gets back.”

  “All ri
ght,” I sighed, having no idea what good leaving a note would do when Ben wasn’t coming home for a few days. “Do you need me to help you get back to the little house?”

  Shaking her head, she shuffled toward the kitchen. “No. I’ll be fine. I don’t want to keep you from your rest. I’m going to go soak my feet. My ankles are stiff. Must be a cold front . . .”

  Growling in my throat, I closed the door and went back to bed, staying awake just long enough to hear the porch door slam.

  Chapter 6

  GRANDMA’S ankles were correct in their prediction. The weather turned cold the day after Ben left. Three days later, it was still rainy and unpleasant outside, and Grandma and I were starting to get cabin fever. I was actually glad when she volunteered us to help set up the inter-church Christmas village in Town Square Park. The Senior Baptist Ladies were in high spirits, because for the first time in several years they had been awarded responsibility for decorating the Santa House—the crème de la crème of the Christmas Village display. Plans included a dozen freshly cut Christmas trees, decoration of the gazebo, and the election of Mrs. Santa Claus.

  When we arrived at the church on the crisp December afternoon, the ladies were already sorting through boxes of supplies and discussing decorating ideas. They paused for a moment to pass Josh around, and then three of them hustled him off to the nursery, ignoring my protests that I could carry him in the belly sling while I worked. Grandma patted my shoulder and told me not to worry, that the ladies had been taking care of babies longer than I had been alive. Still, I felt a little strange with Josh gone.

  Surveying the room, I noticed with some relief that I was not the only under-sixty person who had been drafted into temporary membership in the Senior Ladies. There were a couple of women around my age, a few younger than I, two teenage boys, and one captive husband, who was doing all the heavy lifting. Everyone seemed excited and cheerful, even the husband, who was being henpecked nearly to death by his wife, his mother, and his mother-in-law.

  When the Senior Ladies started singing Christmas carols together, I knew without a doubt that Christmas fever had come to Hindsville. By the time we began setting up Christmas trees in the square, Grandma was afflicted with it and was angling to play Mrs. Santa Claus in the pageant.

  “But I wouldn’t want anyone to think Oliver Mason and I are a couple. You know they have chosen that old coot as Santa Claus?” she was saying. “People could get the wrong idea.”

  I hid behind a Douglas fir, trying not to giggle. This was, after all, the serious matter of Grandma’s reputation. “I’m sure they won’t. But if you’re worried about it, don’t play Mrs. Santa Claus.”

  Wringing her hands, she let out a long, soulful sigh. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want the children to be disappointed.” As if no one else in town could possibly play Mrs. Claus.

  “That’s something to think about.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and pretended to be busy fluffing out the tree. “I guess you’ll just have to do it.”

  Raising her chin steadfastly, she gave one swift nod. “I suppose I shall.”

  And so she left me there and wandered off to begin campaigning in earnest. I continued working on the Santa House with Wanda Cox, a sixtyish neighbor of Grandma’s who was tall and slender and wore a beauty-shop hairdo that reminded me of the 1960s. With us were her daughter, Sandy, who was the fourth-grade teacher in town, and three other elderly ladies whom I didn’t know. With all of us working, the task went quickly, which was good, because evening was coming and it was getting cold. To keep warm, we talked as we worked, about kids mostly, because that was the one thing we all had in common.

  “I worried about everything when Bailey was born, but with Justin, I just let things go. It’s a lot more fun,” Sandy was saying. She was pretty, a few years younger than I, with short blond hair, and a friendly personality that made you feel like you’d known her forever. I figured that made her good at teaching.

  One of the ladies hanging garlands laughed. “It’s easier with the second one, isn’t it? By the time you’ve had four, you’re satisfied just to keep them all fed, diapered, and bathed. Mine were eighteen months to twenty-two months apart. It seemed like I never would get through washing diapers. Every day, another load of diapers. We had that old wringer washer, and I’d stand there and churn that thing, and churn that thing, then wring the diapers, and hang the diapers, and in the meanwhile, the children would be tearing up the house, or running in the mud hole, and here I’d go again.”

  Wanda giggled along with her. “My mother used to put the babies in those long dresses, and when she had work to do in the kitchen, she’d pick up the table leg and set it down on the end of the baby’s dress. That way she’d know right where we were. Of course, she married at seventeen and had seven, so she had to do something.”

  “Seven,” I breathed. “Wow.” I was thinking of how I felt half out of my mind raising one, and was trying to picture how it would be to have seven, still be in your twenties, and be living in the dark ages before wrinkle-free clothes and disposable diapers. It made my life seem like cheesecake.

  The conversation went on like that for quite some time. We covered cooking, husbands, childbirth, weddings, college coursework then and now, and a touch of politics. And all the while we covered the Santa House with garlands and lights. With so many hands, it hardly seemed like work. Everyone was laughing and talking, discussing, humming Christmas songs. In spite of the cold turning fingers and toes numb, it was the best day I could remember.

  We ate a potluck supper in the fellowship hall of the church, which had once been the chapel. Built of native brownstone with ancient stained-glass windows in hand-hewn frames, old candelabra chandeliers, and beaded board paneling, it was a perfect setting for a Christmas dinner. Townspeople added to our number, and the supper soon looked like a major happening in Hindsville.

  It was a picture-postcard event—long tables decorated with red tablecloths and garlands, and filled with food in dishes of a hundred different shapes and colors. The room was alive with a wonderful sense of community, people laughing and talking, discussing the events in one another’s daily lives. I was struck by how well they knew each other and how fortunate they were to have that sense of belonging. Watching the old people pass Josh around, I wished Ben were there to share the evening. He would have enjoyed the food and the conversation, and he definitely would have enjoyed watching Grandma campaign for the position of Mrs. Santa Claus.

  She was working the room like a professional, shaking hands, kissing babies, calling in favors, even doing a little blackmail. She hardly paused long enough to eat supper. She finished up the evening by sitting with old Oliver, so everyone could see how they looked together. Watching the two of them made me laugh. Oliver looked like a smitten fifteen-year-old boy, and Grandma looked as if she were trying to swallow a dose of castor oil. When he laid a hand on her arm, she gave him a look that could have fried an egg. He didn’t seem to care. He just smiled and chewed on the end of his unlit cigar.

  By the time the evening was over, Grandma had the election in the bag. No one was surprised when she won the position of Mrs. Santa Claus by an overwhelming margin. Grandma pretended to be honored and astonished, and laying her hand on her chest in a gesture of false humility, she walked forward to accept her costume. Then she promptly sat beside me, leaving old Oliver to fall asleep in the corner.

  Grandma spread the Mrs. Claus costume on the table and began to discuss how embellishments could be made. When we got home later that evening, she started her work.

  Over the next two days, I received sewing lessons and was endlessly tortured over the appearance of the costume, and whether Grandma should sit next to Oliver in the Santa House or on a chair beside it so she could hand out candy canes, or perhaps old-fashioned peppermint sticks would be better, and perhaps the line of children should file by her before they went in to see Santa Claus, because . . .

  Meanwhile, I was growing more immune to Grandma’s ra
mbling and complaining speeches. Even though Ben’s three-day trip turned into a week plus three days, the time seemed to pass quickly. He was due home the day after the pageant, with a nice paycheck—enough to catch up on most of the bills, at least for another month. I still hadn’t talked to him about my occasional fantasies of a life change, but the desire for something different in our lives was becoming real in my mind.

  The day of the Christmas pageant dawned sunny and pleasant for December. Grandma fretted over last-minute preparations all day, until finally it was time to get ready for the pageant. I dressed Joshua in a red snowsuit, took pictures of him in the arms of the most perfect ever Mrs. Santa Claus, and away we went. We arrived at the secret Santa rendezvous location behind the post office with no time to spare, and Grandma was hoisted onto the firetruck by three volunteer firemen. She rode next to Santa Claus and even managed to hold hands with the old coot. Oliver’s red cheeks were a perfect addition to his costume, and there was no rouge involved.

  At the Santa House, Grandma sat outside the door, handing candy canes to hopeful kids and admonishing them to be good. I recognized Dell Jordan in the line and was relieved when Grandma didn’t refuse her a candy cane, mention anything about welfare, or tell her that her Christmas wishes probably wouldn’t be fulfilled. She didn’t treat the girl with any special kindness, but she wasn’t cruel either, which I knew from experience she could be. Apparently, the Christmas spirit had improved her disposition.

  When the Santa line was finished and the trees were lit, everyone stood around the gazebo enjoying the lights and trays of cookies and gallons of hot spiced apple cider provided by groups of church ladies. Grandma sat near the gazebo with Joshua in her lap, amid a crowd of admirers, and I sat on a bench near the edge of the park with Sandy and her husband, Troy. Their daughter, Bailey, was playing on the ground in front of us, so bulky in her snowsuit that she could barely walk. We were laughing and talking about kids and whatnot.

  “Now, our little one is a rascal.” Sandy giggled. “Bailey was so sweet and so easy, but this new one is a whole other thing. We left him home with his gramp tonight.” She glanced over her shoulder at a group of boys who were sitting on the sidewalk behind us with their plates. “Y’all quit throwing your food,” Sandy admonished them. “If you don’t want it, put it in the trash.”