by Pamela Morsi
“Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“Suzy said she blew the surprise.”
“I’m still surprised,” D.J. said. “And I can’t wait to see. Can you help me up?”
“I can carry you.”
“Just give me your arm.”
Side by side, step by step, they made their way up. Scott was talking rapidly, filling her in on the confrontation with Amelia. D.J. was stunned.
“Permits? I do not believe that shelf realignment requires permits. It’s about rearranging the furniture, not doing construction.”
Scott nodded. “Yeah, you probably could have won that in court, but who has time or energy or money to go to court.”
“And James saved the day.”
“Unbelievable, right?”
“Yes... Well, no, not really. James probably cares more about the library than anybody. Even way outside his comfort zone, he recognized his duty to rescue us.”
They reached the top of the steps and walked across the porch. Scott held the door for D.J. as she stepped inside. A round of applause greeted her. But even more welcoming was the bright glow of natural light flooding between the bookshelves to the vestibule. D.J. knew that it was going to be better. She never imagined that it would be this beautiful.
Shocked, surprised, stunned, she slowly walked the length of the building, still on Scott’s arm.
“It’s fantastic. It looks wonderful. Thank you. Thank you all so much.”
She was overwhelmed with all the people involved. She tried to express her gratitude to each one personally. There were a lot of “Oh, shucks” responses and some “Glad to do it,” but some very thoughtful ones, too.
“It’s our library,” the old gentleman from Pine Tree told her. “It’s about time we took some responsibility for the shape that it’s in.”
Suzy reminded everybody that the doctor said D.J. shouldn’t spend much time on her feet. So a chair was set up for her in front of the circulation desk, where she could see what was going on, be in the middle of the action and still elevate her injured foot on a stepstool.
A few of the ranges were being put together, but books were already going on the installed shelves. All of her advance planning was coming into fruition as the nonlibrary trained volunteers were able to easily identify where each grouping of volumes should be shelved. And with all the help, they were going back up a lot more quickly than they had come down.
She asked about James, but nobody had seen him since he became the man in charge and ordered the work to continue. Karl had backed him up, as following the letter of the law. He had been an employee longer than Miss Grundler. And all the angry things she had to say about him didn’t change that. The woman had stomped off furiously, though not seeming as much beaten as determined to regroup.
Amos returned from his bookmobile route in the late afternoon. He was impressed.
“I never believed it could get done today,” he said. “I am totally blown away.”
But not so blown away that he couldn’t stow his gear and start helping out, as well. D.J. figured it didn’t hurt that he was able to appoint himself as an assistant to Jeannie and start following her around like a faithful puppy.
And where faithful puppies were concerned, Viv showed up after closing the drugstore. She brought Dew inside with her. D.J. was excited to see him and he seemed likewise thrilled.
“You shouldn’t bring him in here.”
“He’s on his leash.”
“Yes, that’s good, but only service dogs are allowed in libraries.”
Viv winked at her. “He’s been a lot of service to me. Besides, he’s got a friend on the library board.”
Edna Kievener pulled up a chair to sit beside her.
“I’m pretending to consult with you,” she told D.J. “To give myself an excuse to sit down.”
“I think being tired ought to be excuse enough.”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t want to be mistaken for one of those dear old souls from the nursing home whom we all expect to stay seated. Besides, Old Man Paske has been winking at me all afternoon. If that crazy lech is not careful I’m going to box his ears.”
D.J. laughed. “I’m pretty sure nobody wants to see that happen,” she said.
“Oh, I’m certain they do,” Edna countered. “That’s the kind of thing that passes for entertainment in this town. But don’t you worry, if the smelly coot can’t take a hint, I’ll have Mr. Dewey here bite his leg.”
“Dew’s not much of a biter,” D.J. said.
“Oh, he seems like the kind of little fellow a woman could count on to protect her.”
Claire Gleason also took a break to sit beside her and discuss what she’d heard about the proposed new bookmobile stops. She sounded impressed and pleased.
“I think we’re all going to be excited about the expansion of service.”
Ashley had a chance to pet Dew as she filled D.J. in on all the excitement that occurred in her absence. The typically silent, sluggish girl was almost effervescent in her enthusiasm.
“I’ve been helping Mrs. Sanderson in the drugstore, but mostly what I’ve been doing is taking Mr. Dewey for walks and playing with him on the sidewalk, ’cause he’s not really supposed to be in the store. And I am totally sure now that I want a dog that’s a little black terrier. Even if black is not my favorite color. Orange is my favorite color. Dogs don’t usually come in orange anyway.”
The little girl laughed delightedly. It was a great sound to hear.
As afternoon wove on into evening, more and more people stopped by. D.J. began to feel as if she were part of a reception line as new people came by to introduce themselves.
The community worked late. Everyone was keen on getting the job done. As the sun went down, several of the older residents including Viv, who were not so keen about driving at night, made an exit.
The Pine Tree residents cheerfully said their goodbyes, one declaring to D.J. that “watching all the work was the best fun I’ve had in months.”
It was a quarter to seven when Stevie Rossiter showed up. She brought catered dinner donated from the Brazier. Julene Turpin came with her, both to pick up her daughter and to help serve the food.
Stevie dished a plate and brought it for D.J. She took the seat beside her.
“You know you look really good for somebody who just got out of the hospital. That’s setting the standard way too high for the women of Verdant.”
D.J. was pretty sure she was lying. Stevie was a natural beauty. Makeup free and bed-headed, she would outshine most of the women in the entire state of Kansas. But she thanked her for the compliment, nonetheless.
“I found out today that you used to be married to Scott,” D.J. told her.
Stevie’s eyes widened. “You found out today?” she repeated. “And I thought my entire life story was being handed out in a pamphlet on the Newcomers Cart.”
“I did hear about you and Vern very quickly,” D.J. clarified. “But I didn’t know Scott was part of the history.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you himself,” she said.
“He did tell me he was divorced,” D.J. replied. “And I think he mentioned you a couple of times. But he called you Stephanie. I never made the connection.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “Stephanie was my pretending to be a straight woman name. Scott is about the only person who still uses it. Maybe because I pretended longest with him.”
D.J. didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing and offered what she hoped was a noncommittal smile.
“I hope this is not going to make things weird between us,” Stevie said. “I really like you. Vern really likes you. We both think you and Scott will be great together.”
“Oh, we’re not really together,” D.J. hedged quickly.
“Well, get that changed as quickly as you can,” Stevie told her. “Scott is a great guy. What I did to him... what I did to Vern—heck, what I did to myself, was terrible
, horrible, stupid.” She sighed heavily and shook her head. “When we’re young, sometimes we make those mistakes. It doesn’t mean that we don’t eventually deserve some happiness. My life has turned out to be really good. I think you would be really good for Scott. And I’m pretty sure he would be good for you.”
Forty-Nine
732.2 Music for Single Voice
Viv had enjoyed herself the last few days. It had been fun helping out at the store, doing things she hadn’t done in years. And the work at the library brought out an optimism and community enthusiasm that she’d almost forgotten. It was even better to have Mr. Dewey accompanying her. The little dog made friends wherever he went and his cheerfulness goaded smiles from the tired faces of the workers as easily as the senior citizens on their short respite from the nursing home.
But it was her friend, Edna, who really brought it all home to her.
“I like the looks of that,” she said, indicating D.J. on Scott’s arm.
Viv nodded.
“I’ve never seen a more smitten couple. They both look like they can hardly wait to rip their clothes off.”
“Let’s hope they wait until they get home,” Viv teased.
“Ah... I remember those days.”
Viv did, too.
“So no more time spent worrying about Scott,” Edna told her. “Now you’ve got to see what you can learn to enjoy about freedom and independence.”
Was that what she was supposed to do?
No. That was definitely not it. She had already decided. She wanted to be with John. There was nothing, nothing left for her here. That had been the entire plan. Once Scott was settled, she was free to... to do what John undoubtedly intended for her to do. There were no more tasks to be completed, no more lessons to be learned. She was free to go to him. And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Her certainty on the subject was wavering. There had been no more dreams. No more messages from the other side. He had not come to her again. That image of him, the young, strong image had become the one to linger in her memory, blotting out the persistent recall of his emaciated body lying cold against white sheets.
The youthful visage was like a gift, one that was so much easier to live with. But she’d decided that she didn’t want to live. That’s what she’d decided. Once Scott was settled, she was free to go.
She arrived back home questioning her own resolve. Was she losing her nerve? In the last few busy weeks had she inexplicably begun to think long-term? She had no long-term plan. Her plan was to be gone.
Edna was right. Scott and D.J. were far enough along that they were bound to find happiness together. If she waited longer, it was an artificial delay. Certainly today was not the best time, but there would never be a best time. If she put it off...
Viv refused to allow herself to finish the thought. She would not put it off. In fact, she would do it now.
She took Mr. Dewey off his leash, set her purse down on the kitchen counter and walked straight through to her husband’s office. She pulled out the secreted cooler filled with bad cans and carried it to the kitchen. The dog followed close at her heels.
Carefully she unloaded the bulging canned goods into the sink. Several had already broken open.
“I was thinking,” she told Mr. Dewey. “To fix a pot of stew. I have so many varied ingredients, a stew might work. But now I’m leaning toward a potpie. I used to make potpie for John, and he loved it.”
The dog continued to eye her curiously.
“Look at this cream of chicken,” she said, and held up the misshapen can. Something brown was growing on the side of it. “Is that the scariest, nastiest-looking thing you have ever seen. Eww, totally disgusting.” She set it on the side.
“The good news about botulism,” she said, “is that you can’t taste a thing. I’m sure it’s not the most pleasant way to die. But it’s hardly the worst. Most people assume it’s like food poisoning. That you get sick to your stomach and vomit yourself to death. That is absolutely wrong. It doesn’t work that fast and if you’re throwing up, you get rid of it and it doesn’t sicken you at all.”
A tin of carrots was so rounded on the bottom it wouldn’t stand. She laid it next to the cream of chicken.
“Botulism bacteria attacks the nervous system and paralyses you,” she explained. “They say the first thing you lose is the ability to speak. That seems like a plus. Even if I were to change my mind, I won’t be able to call for help.”
Viv moved to the counter across the kitchen. She dug through her utensil drawer until she found her pastry blender. Then she measured out the flour and expertly cut the shortening into it. Mr. Dewey stayed close beside her.
She began humming happily to herself. It had been a long time since she’d made a pie crust. I should do this more often, she thought to herself. And then laughed aloud at her own inability to hold a grasp of her actions.
Suicide was her positive step forward. She had considered it early on. She understood about those women throwing themselves upon a funeral pyre. Without John, her life was over. She wanted it to be over. And the wonderful thing about her plan was that no one would ever suspect what she had done. An old lady found dead in her bed would be a shock. But it was not as if she were taking a pistol out of the bedside table.
She rolled out the dough until it was thin enough to be flaky and large enough to be double the dish. She gently eased the bottom crust into place. Then let it rest as she put together the filling.
Peas and potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, white beans and sauerkraut. She laughed at the combination. Never in the history of potpies had such been brought together. She pulled her electric can opener out of its cubby and put it to work.
The first can spewed its contents halfway across the room.
Mr. Dewey barked at it.
“Let the fireworks begin!” Viv joked.
With several spews, a few fizzles and a share of drama-free openings, she managed to get all of her interesting potpie ingredients mixed together. She stirred it, but didn’t cook it. She assumed that the less heat on the bacteria, the better.
“I feel like a witch,” she told Mr. Dewey. “All it needs is an eye of newt and I could probably turn my Mini Cooper into a purple cabbage.”
She poured the filling into the shell and then covered it with the top crust. She sealed the edges together and crimped them prettily, the way her mother had taught her a half century earlier. A few slits cut in the top would allow steam to escape. She looked at her work and smiled. It looked as nice as any she’d ever made.
“Who could imagine that? I’ve never even heard of a potpie with sauerkraut. It’s too bad there’s no time to leave the recipe in my will.”
She laughed aloud at that small excuse for a joke.
“I suppose there really is time,” she admitted. “It’s six to twelve hours before the symptoms take effect. I could just write sauerkraut potpie on a slip of paper and stick it in my recipe box. Eventually D.J. or Leanne or somebody would find it. Right?”
Somehow that didn’t seem like enough. It was a good hint, but she should probably scribble out the entire recipe. Of course, without her to recommend it, no one might ever even give it a shot.
“That’s probably why I’ve never heard of it before,” she told the dog. “All of the past consumers of it were probably busy committing suicide, as well.”
She put her potpie in the hot oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
“Now we have to clean up. Can’t leave a shred of evidence.”
She poured out and rinsed out all of the leftover “bad cans” and washed out the cooler for good measure. She cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down all the surfaces with anti-bacterial soap. She wanted botulism, but she certainly didn’t want anyone else to get it. She flattened all the misshapen cans to disguise their issues and distributed them throughout the recycling bin, so they would appear unsuspicious.
A flash of headlights let her know Scott and D.J. were home.
&nbs
p; “Yes,” she told Mr. Dewey. “This will be their home. Oh, I know that Scott likes his new place, but once I’m gone it will make more sense to move in here. They can reopen the upper floor and make this the family house again.” She glanced down at the little dog. “It will be perfect for you, I promise,” she told him. “And wait until they fill it with little children for you to play with.”
She liked the thought of that. The image of Scott and D.J. setting up their life here, recreating the happiness that she had shared with John.
There was a momentary pang of regret that neither of them would see it, but she pushed it away.
The oven timer rang like the toll of a bell. Viv looked around her kitchen with confidence that all her tracks had been adequately covered.
Her creation came out golden brown and smelling like heaven itself. She left it on the counter to cool as she set the table.
For this special occasion, she set a place for herself in the dining room, using her grandmother’s revered and fragile bone china.
“Thanksgiving, Christmas and suicide,” she quipped to the dog. She was amusing and enjoying herself.
The beautiful pie looked even better atop the white tablecloth, with a sterling silver serving spoon at the ready. She’d chilled a bottle of Chenin Blanc and poured herself a generous portion in a champagne flute for a bit more pizzazz. Lit candles, cloth napkin, it was all quite lovely. And quite lonely.
She went to the stairs pantry and found the dog treats. She put two on a dinner plate.
She smiled at her lovely dinner table. It was truly fit for the occasion. Unfortunately she was not at all hungry.
She’d eaten barbecue with everyone else when she was still at the library. That had probably been a bad idea.
Momentarily she thought she should sit down and force herself to eat it. That was the best way to keep second thoughts at bay. Still, she wanted her last meal to be pleasant. There was nothing pleasant about eating when she wasn’t hungry.
