A Rose by the Door

by Deborah Bedford

  He had another go at silently tucking in his shirt, but he must have remembered that he’d already done it once because he stopped halfway through.

  They both spoke at once.

  “I see you’re leaving work,” she said.

  “I heard you’re leaving Mrs. Bartling’s,” he said.

  “They fixed my car finally. It’s time we went out on our own.”

  “I heard you’re still having fun at the museum,” he said. “Stringing guitars for Mabel. Washing windows for Mabel. Dusting exhibits for Mabel. And that group from the senior center that goes over on Wednesday mornings. The ones that play checkers in the country store display. I’ve heard they enjoy having you around.”

  “I finally beat Orvin Kornruff,” she bragged.

  “Yes, but he had one hand bandaged, remember?”

  “But a person doesn’t need both hands to play checkers. A person just needs his head.”

  Gemma reached up to pet the huge black lab that surged toward them, tongue lolling sideways, to make friends. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Fred. After Fred Flintstone. My favorite cartoon.”

  Silence loomed between them.

  “I’d better come back to see you later,” she said after a beat. “I don’t feel good about bothering you when you’re getting ready to go.”

  “You can bother me any time, Miss Franklin. What is it you need?”

  “I’ve got a question about records,” she said. “Some research I’m doing.”

  “Records?”

  “If something happened and sheriff’s deputies were called to the scene for some reason, would that have gotten written down into a report?”

  Deputy Jay Triplett scratched Fred the dog behind the ears. The huge dog melted against his arm. “Yes. Most certainly.”

  “What if that report was written a long time ago? Would it still be around?”

  “How long ago?”

  “Maybe five years. A little more, actually.”

  “You have dates?”

  “It happened in the winter of 1996. February.”

  “We keep archives in there that date back twenty years. All of it in manila folders and file cabinets. All of it referenced with names, dates, case numbers.”

  “Could I see them?”

  “Not without the approval of the county attorney. Some of it is public record, Gemma. Some of it isn’t.”

  “What makes the difference between it being public record or not?”

  “Did this incident have charges filed? Did it ever go to court?”

  Gemma thought about that and slowly shook her head. “No.” If anything had ever happened that might have gone to court in their family, Nathan would have certainly found out about it. Gemma wracked her brain to remember the exact wording of Nathan’s letter.

  “Her dad said the police came to our house the night you went away. She said he knew about it because he was driving past and saw the lights flashing.”

  “This could be a problem,” he told her. “If no charges were filed and the case never went to court, it isn’t a matter of public record, I’m afraid. I’d have to speak with the county attorney, but it isn’t information I can release to you. No matter how much I’d like to do it.”

  “I don’t need to know any details about that night, Deputy Triplett. I only need to find out someone’s name.”

  “Someone’s name?”

  She nodded. “There was a brother. Living in Mrs. Bartling’s house. He wasn’t Nathan. He was somebody else. I want to know how to find him.”

  “How old was this brother? Do you have any information on that?”

  “He would have been—” Gemma figured it in her head. “—fifteen.”

  Gemma regarded the officer hopefully. But her hope plummeted when he shook his head.

  “I can’t help you there,” he told her. “That would be releasing information about a minor involved in a civil disturbance. No matter how I’d like to give you that information, Miss Franklin, Nebraska state laws forbid me to do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bea Bartling’s yard looked as neat as a new pin.

  She had taken to puttering around outside these evenings after work, watering, weeding, pruning the roses, mowing the grass.

  As each day passed under her care, the rose blossoms had flourished, petals unfurling in giant curls, as big around as a man’s fist, fragrant—a yellow as pure and subtle as watercolor paints, tender, newborn. The grass had darkened to a deep, verdant emerald, thick as velveteen, unmarred by wiry strands of crabgrass or bothersome splotches of dandelion. Jays, kinglets, and cardinals flew in short scallops from fence to limb and back again, chortling and bobbing, vying for positions at the feeder and in the uppermost leaves of the maple.

  Bea had brought home a set of red bricks from the masonry shop and, for the past two evenings, she had been edging flowerbeds, following a sketch she had drawn from memory of Thomas Jefferson’s Serpentine Wall. Each evening after work she had been hauling bricks around the yard, standing back to see, then working piece by piece on her hands and knees like rickrack, using them to border the hollows and swells of the beds.

  Only the car didn’t fit. An ‘83 Toyota Corolla in the driveway that had once been white, with chips of paint gone to rust and a dent in the front grill.

  “Thank you for letting me wash this thing before we take off,” Gemma said formally. “I paid all that money and I feel like I should have gotten back a new car. But it isn’t. It’s just the same old dirty junk heap that barely got us here in the first place.”

  Bea read the truth between the words in Gemma’s statement. They were fighting for every mile to get here. How can I just let her drive away like this?

  The sun was sinking behind the ocean of grass to the west, turning the countryside pink and yellow and lavender with the sunset. Bea asked with careful nonchalance, “You taking off tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We are.”

  Bea stooped down and started aligning bricks, overlapping their lengths, burying their bases along the length of the front walk. “You two won’t get far, leaving this late.”

  “We aren’t going far. We’re just going to the Sissels tonight. Mabel Perkins would be the first one to notify the sheriff if I tried to leave Ash Hollow before I serve out my time. Four hours more, and then I’m finished.”

  “Where are you going after you’re done serving time?”

  “Haven’t thought about it much. I thought maybe I’d write my grandmother once I got a permanent address.

  Maybe she’ll come all the way to visit us from Omaha. Maybe she’ll—” Gemma stared up at the sky, as if something there would help her finish her sentence. “I’ll write you a letter, too. If anybody comes looking for us, would you tell them where we’ve gone?”

  Bea stared at a tree limb somewhere beyond Gemma’s left shoulder. “Maybe you’ll hear from your grand mother. I’ll make certain she finds you if she looks for you here.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bea hoped that none of what she felt or thought showed on her face. Dry-throated, she said, “I’ll get some food together for the Sissels. With you two coming, they could use some of these frozen casseroles.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Take some to Mabel Perkins, too. Tell her I’m paying her back for all those sticky buns you ate.”

  For a moment, it seemed to Bea as if maybe Gemma tried to delay. The girl took a breath so deep, her entire body seemed to stand at attention, and then to sag. “Well—” Gemma clapped her hands together.

  “Yes?”

  “Time to go, I suppose.”

  When they packed the Toyota Corolla in the drive way, the only addition to their belongings was one gigantic bear and one grocery sack filled with new clothes that Paisley loved but Gemma had never worn. Paisley sat clutching her teddy bear in the front seat, her arms squeezing so tight that its stuffing squished up into
its head.

  Gemma pitched the suitcase in the backseat. She took the sack of casseroles from Mrs. Bartling and stashed them in the trunk. She slammed it shut and turned to Bea. “I’d like to think we’re doing the right thing. I’d like to think all this would be better left alone.”

  “You should.”

  “Nathan used to say that. ‘Somethings are better left well-enough alone, Gemma.’ But he was wrong saying it, don’t you see? If he hadn’t left well enough alone, you and I might have stood a chance at trusting each other.”

  Bea held the door for her and said in a cold, bitter voice, “I don’t want to hear what Nathan said anymore. I’m sick to death of hearing the things Nathan did and said.”

  “You know what? I am, too.”

  Gemma climbed in, shut the door, and turned the key in the ignition. The old Corolla started up first try.

  Bea stood straight as a ramrod, her hands hooked over the door handle, not wanting to let go. “There’s a reason I didn’t write Jacob’s name in the Sneed family Bible. I would have, but I never got the chance.”

  “It’s too late for explaining,” Gemma said.

  “Jacob was adopted.”

  “Adopted?”

  Bea’s heart clubbed. Her eyes stung. How long had it been since she’d spoken the truth about this to anyone? “He only went by Bartling while he lived with us. He lived with us five years. Even though he and Nathan had been best friends since they were little. Sleepovers under the stars. Bike treks. Huge bowls of macaroni-and-cheese or popcorn while they watched movies. Even before he came to live with us, even before, Nathan had me feeling like Jacob was part mine.”

  Gemma’s hand faltered on the gearshift. She sat perfectly still for one long moment before she said,

  “Adopted people don’t fare very well around you, do they?”

  “Why don’t you take roses with you to the Sissels? If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll get scissors. They’ll smell nice.”

  “I don’t want roses, Mrs. Bartling. You always send people off with roses.” Gemma moved the gear indicator to reverse.

  “Ray and I wanted to help. That’s all. Everything was so awful, and we thought we could make a difference.”

  Gemma took her foot off the brake. The car began to roll. “A son ought to remain a son—” she pinned Mrs. Bartling with damning green eyes “—no matter the circumstances. You called him your child, but you didn’t let him stay.”

  “Paisley,” Bea cried. “Paisley Rose.”

  The little girl didn’t turn toward her window. She didn’t say a word.

  Bea ran backwards with the car. “Paisley, I’m so sorry.”

  Her last view, the little girl’s bottom lip trembling as she clutched the gigantic bear.

  “I know why Nathan loved you both,” Bea called out as she finally let go. “You are so much like him.”

  Bea waved and waved and waved as the taillights grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared up Pattison Drive. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought perhaps she saw a little hand, flickering from Paisley’s side, catching light through the glass.

  Bea walked back inside her empty house. Nothing had changed. Her life remained as barren as the day Deputy Jay Triplett had knocked on her door in the middle of the night and told her that her son had died.

  She walked up the hallway, turning out the lights, then stopped in the doorway to the guest room. The bed had been made. The pillows had been fluffed. The air conditioner had been turned off and the mint-green towels in the bathroom hung carefully in a row.

  No sign remained that anyone had recently occupied this room. No sign at all, except for the peach crayon that had rolled and gotten lost beneath the bed.

  That’s what she’d do, Bea decided, trying to perk her self up a bit. She’d paint the house peach just the way she’d wanted.

  Bea bent to pick up the crayon. When she did, she saw a small photograph laying with purpose on the left-hand pillow.

  She picked it up, held it close to her nose so she could see without her glasses.

  Oh, my. The picture Gemma had showed her at the fair. The wedding picture. Her son the way she’d never seen him before, standing tall and proud, his shoulders squared in a borrowed sport coat, his jaw raised in pleasure. All that time, and he still wanted to be a teacher! He would have made such a good teacher.

  All this time, she’d only had eyes for Nathan. All this time, and now it was the girl who drew Bea’s eyes.

  Standing at his side, so beautiful and young, in a funny green dress that was fancy but didn’t fit her, her hair cropped short at the nape and hanging in long strands beside her ears. She held one cellophane-wrapped rose in her hands. She held a world of hope in her eyes.

  “What do I do with this?” Bea asked aloud to no one. “What do I do with this?” as she held it out to nothing with two fingers, as if she expected something to take it from her.

  No answer came.

  Bea buried her face in her hands and didn’t cry.

  “I don’t have an appointment,” Bea told Sheila, the church secretary, when she came in. “Please. I need a few minutes with Pastor George.”

  “I’ll get him,” the secretary said. “Wait right here. Mrs. Bartling? Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

  “I’m fine. Really.” But even to her own ears, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself, not Sheila.

  Not twenty seconds later here came George himself, in a regular green shirt, his face filled with concern when he saw her. He solemnly led her into his office and waited while she settled herself into one of his counseling chairs. “Dearest. Oh, Beatrice. What’s wrong? Can you tell me?”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and lifted her eyes to him. “Oh, Pastor George,” she said at last. “Where is God in all this? Can you tell me?”

  George watched her for a long time with somber eyes. “No, Bea,” he said at last. “I don’t know. And, if I did, I wouldn’t be the one to tell you. You have to ask Him to answer that himself.”

  Disappointed, she dropped her eyes to her hands and stared at them.

  “Does He speak to you, Beatrice? Do you try to hear Him?”

  “No. I argue with Him. And then I argue more. I tell Him how angry I am,” she murmured to her clasped fingers. “I tell Him how angry I am because I asked Him to do impossible things, and He didn’t do them.”

  “I’ve been praying for you,” he told her. “This is the worst time after somebody dies, isn’t it? When all the sympathy ends and you’re expected to get back to everyday life with a smile? When your house is empty and there’s nothing to—”

  She stopped him right there. “My house has been empty a long time, Pastor George.”

  “Yes, but it’s emptier than usual now that the Franklins left,” he commented. “Paisley and Gemma.”

  “They didn’t want to stay with me anymore.”

  “Oh, I see.” And he did. He understood more than she ever wanted him to understand.

  “My faith in God has diminished, Pastor George. And because of that, I am unfaithful to those around me.”

  “Bea, you’re a faithful person. If you weren’t you wouldn’t be struggling so. A strong heart for God is one that’s not afraid to wrestle with Him.”

  “Oh, George. You were right when I said I might learn about myself. Things have happened that have made me . . . know myself a little better. And that can be a beginning, don’t you think?”

  She smiled a little smile, and so did he. “Beginnings.” He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and shook his head at her. “If you can cling to beginnings, you’ll get by.”

  “I’m clinging,” she whispered to him. “But no matter how hard I try, I can barely hang on.”

  “It is easier for us to be angry at God than it is for us to change ourselves. Faith is something different than you think it is, Bea. Faith is not a passive resignation to life. Faith isn’t fate. ‘God will take care of my needs, but if he doesn’t, I can�
�t do a thing about it.’ That’s not faith. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly the opposite of faith. Even when things seem their worst, you need to expect all of God’s goodness and love in your life, Bea.”

  “How can I expect all of it, George, when I haven’t seen any of it?”

  “Watch,” he said. “Just watch.”

  Things were certainly different for Gemma and Paisley staying at the Sissels house than they’d been at Mrs. Bartling’s.

  For one thing, Gemma knew she ought not to complain, but the parsonage was so small that there wasn’t a guest room, only a hide-a-bed in the middle of the living room, which couldn’t be folded out for bedtime until after the local late news on KNOP-TV had ended. When it did get pulled out at last, the thing sounded like a pickup tailgate coming down, in dire need of WD-40.

  For another thing, ever since the Toyota Corolla had backed out of the driveway at Mrs. Bartling’s house, Paisley would not talk. She would not respond. She would not laugh. She wouldn’t utter a sound.

  “You want to sleep on this side of the bed or the other side ?” Gemma asked her.

  No answer. Paisley climbed in the middle of the bed and sat there, her eyes huge and sad.

  “Do you want to wear your pink shorts today, Paisley, or your purple capris?”

  No sign. The child only waited until Gemma handed her something and pulled them on, fastening her buttons herself.

  “I promise, Paisley Rose. Another few days and we’ll be out of this funny, folding bed. We’ll find a new place to start. Some place of our own.”

  At this, Paisley’s little mouth opened as if she might say something. But it closed again. No sound. The only thing Gemma knew to do was to give her daughter a hug.

  When the doorbell rang early that next evening, Ellen Sissel was heating up a casserole and Gemma had roosted on the edge of the couch, with work from Mabel Perkins she had brought here from the museum; a length of black velvet draped across her knees like an opera skirt as she aligned Francis Clupney’s hundreds of tintacks and stickpins and studs. Ellen was just getting the casserole into the oven. She had hot pads on both hands.

  “I’ll go.” Gemma laid the jewelry and badges aside with care. She folded the velvet away from her lap, and went to answer.