by Nick Poff
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” said Muriel as she poked at her chef’s salad.
“I’ll talk to Rick about it,” he said, thinking of Daniel’s journal in his bedside drawer at home. The work on the Cooley Street house was wrapping up. Maybe, he thought, we should figure it out for ourselves before we sell it and move on.
“I think the heat’s getting to you, Edward,” Muriel said, knocking an overripe tomato wedge out of her salad bowl. “Even for you, you’re acting a little weird these days.”
###
When Rick came home from work that afternoon, he found Ed at the kitchen counter snapping green beans for the pressure cooker. The phone cord was stretched across the kitchen, and the receiver was jammed between his ear and his shoulder.
“Can you believe her?” He was saying. “All this talk about how she’s gonna do what she wants for a change, and then she sneaks off for a private lunch with Clyde. I thought she meant she was going to take a class or redecorate the house!”
Rick ducked under the phone cord, kissed Ed on the cheek, and began to rummage in the refrigerator.
“I know,” Ed said into the phone. “If she wanted to have a fling with Clyde she could have told me. Does she think we would disapprove? Dad’s been gone for nine years now. We’ve all moved on from his death. And I couldn’t ask for a better stepfather than Clyde. He’s been one the best friends I’ve ever had.”
Rick, sipping from a can of Diet Pepsi, listened to this with the beginning of a smirk on his face.
“Tell me about it! Well, you take her on in the lion’s den and get back to me, okay? Rick just walked in. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” Ed hung up the phone and took in the look on Rick’s face. “What?” He asked impatiently.
“I don’t know how it happened,” Rick said, the smirk now quite obvious. “But somehow you and your mother exchanged personalities this summer.”
Ed put his hands on his hips and stared daggers at Rick. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Rick laughed. “Okay, okay. What did Laurie have to say?”
“How did you know I was talking to Laurie?”
“You two always get a certain tone in your voices when you’re bitching about your mom.”
“Oh,” Ed said and returned to his bean snapping.
“And for once I know more than either you or your snoopy sister.”
“Oh, really? Do tell.”
“Well, as you know, Clyde moved in with Matt, Claire, and the kids when they returned from Milwaukee, and you also know I’m selling Claudine’s house for him. I showed the house today to a young newlywed couple. He’s prematurely bald and she has braces on her teeth, but they’re really quite adorable. Anyway, I went over to Matt’s house this afternoon to give Clyde their offer. He told me he had had lunch with Norma, and that he hoped he could see more of her.” Rick looked quite smug delivering this information.
“I see.” Ed swept the bean refuse into a bag and stuffed it in the garbage can. “Are you trying to tell me Clyde and my mother are an item?”
“Looks that way.”
“Humph.” Ed went to the refrigerator. “Chalk up one more for the summer of strange. So what about the house?”
“What?”
“Claudine’s house. Is Clyde going to sell it to the adorables?”
“Ah. That I do not know. He’s thinking over the offer.”
Ed pulled apart bacon strips and threw them into the pressure cooker. “Do you think,” he said thoughtfully, “that after all these years those two might really get together?”
Rick shrugged. “Are you kidding? If you asked me two months ago I probably would have laughed. Now I’ll just sit back with my seat belt fastened and wait for the next surprise.”
###
Ed pondered the idea of Clyde and Norma throughout the next day. He also thought about his father, but there was nothing wistful in his recollections. He remembered how his dad had always been amused by Norma’s abruptness and occasional pushiness. Ed imagined Tim Stephens telling Clyde, “You’re getting more than you bargained for!”
Ed drove from appointment to appointment feeling peaceful with the world in general. He was tapping the steering wheel to the beat of one of his new-to-him favorites, a laid back early seventies tune called “High on a Rainbow” by a group called The Smoke Ring when he pulled up in front of a small, one story house on North Darrow Street, close to their house on Cooley Street. He listened to the end of the song before he got out of his truck. Taking care of this appointment at the end of the day was saving the worst for last, he thought.
The house was owned by Miss Blanche Reddin and Miss Louella Corcoran, two older spinsters who had decided years ago to share a home. Ed was genuinely fond of Miss Reddin. She was big, gawky, and homely with a lumbering walk and a sweet smile. She was so endearingly ditzy at her long-time job at the downtown Woolworths, the customers all adored her.
Miss Corcoran was another story. Short, neat, and always impeccable, she seemed to be made of sharp straight lines. Her usual facial expression would lead one to believe she was always moments from ripping someone’s head off. She worked as a loan assistant at Farmers Trust Bank, and supposedly her coworkers were terrified of her, and with good reason, Ed thought. She had reduced a former cleaning lady to tears, and had come close to doing the same to him once or twice over the years. If it were not for Miss Reddin, he would have crossed Miss Corcoran off his list years ago. He was not the only person in town who wondered how they got along so well.
Happily, Miss Corcoran had not returned from work, and he had a pleasant chat with Miss Reddin as he repaired the caulk on the bathroom tub.
He heard the back door open and silently groaned. Godzilla has arrived, he thought. Miss Corcoran swept into the bathroom. She gave Ed a curt nod and began to inspect his work. Leona Helmsley had nothing on Luella Corcoran, in Ed’s opinion.
“Well, I suppose it will do,” she said skeptically. How much are you charging us for this work?”
Ed smiled politely. “The usual rate. I’ll just bill you at the end of the month as usual, Miss Corcoran.”
She looked Ed up and down as though he were trying to pull a fast one on her. “If you insist,” she said in a way that made it seem a horrendous imposition on her.
“Don’t worry about it, Ed.” Miss Reddin patted him on the back and carefully closed the lid on his toolbox. “You know we’re good for it.”
Miss Reddin handed him his toolbox. “Say,” she said, knocking the side of her head. “I completely forgot to ask you. Someone told me you had bought the Denison house. I walked by there the other day and it sure looks different.”
“Yes, we’re fixing it up to sell,” Ed told her, fumbling for his truck keys. “I think we’ll actually be ready to put it on the market next month.”
“So sad about that family,” Miss Reddin clucked. “First Howard and Cora, then Daniel, and now poor Evie. They just seemed doomed.”
Ed looked up. “What? Are you saying Daniel died?”
“Oh, years ago,” she said in a confidential tone. “You know, he…”
“Went through some rough times,” Miss Corcoran interrupted, glaring at Miss Reddin. “There’s no need to rake up ancient history, Blanche. I’m sure Ed has better things to do than listen to stale Porterfield gossip.”
Ed looked from one to the other. Miss Corcoran seemed to be warning Miss Reddin to keep her mouth shut. Abashed, Miss Reddin worked her hands together. “Louella’s right,” she said reluctantly. “It’s a shame about the Denisons, but it was a long time ago.”
Why is old Louella being so tight lipped? Ed thought. Everyone else in this town will spill gossip at the drop of a hat.
“Well, I should be going anyway,” Ed said awkwardly, balancing his toolbox and his keys as he reached for the door handle. He nodded courteously to both ladies. “Miss Corcoran. Miss Reddin. Please have a pleasant evening.”
They wished him the same an
d he hurried down the front walk to his truck, his mind racing with what little Miss Reddin had revealed before Miss Corcoran had shut her up. Daniel’s dead! He thought. What happened to him?
He put the truck in gear and headed for Stratton Avenue, but instead of turning south on Main and heading home, he remained on Stratton Avenue until Porterfield Town Cemetery came into view.
###
“Evie Fountain?” the caretaker repeated. “Yeah, we got her here. She’s over in Section B, near the street. Nice stone, too, considering she didn’t have no family left. Don’t know who paid for it. You need directions?”
“Could you just point?” Ed asked.
“Over that way.”
Ed’s eyes traveled from the caretaker’s finger to a cluster of graves dotted with obelisks and several other large monuments. It was the same section that included the Penfield plot.
“I can find it,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Why you so interested in poor ole Evie?” The man asked curiously.
Ed smiled. “Someone has to be,” he said evasively and went back to his truck.
He slowly drove the truck on the narrow paths until he spotted the Penfield graves. He hopped out of the truck and paid his respects to each family member, ending with Mrs. Penfield. “I wish you were still here,” Ed whispered. “I bet you could tell me what happened to Daniel, and who B.M. Tarpley is.”
His eyes scanned the other graves. He noted a relatively new one two rows farther east. He walked over and read the inscription on the freshly etched granite.
EVE ANN DENISON FOUNTAIN
1934 - 1987
Next to that stone was a larger one for Howard and Cora Denison. To the right was a headstone similar to Evie’s, except it was noticeably weathered.
DANIEL SETH DENISON
1938 - 1961
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday, November 1, 1960
A new month, a new beginning? I can hope. I doubt that declaring an official end to my mourning over the death of my life with Ernie will end the stupendous grief I’ve been dealing with, but I can pretend, can’t I? It makes it a bit easier.
The good news I received today at least encouraged me to pick up a pen and a new notebook for my thoughts. Hilda Penfield stopped by my classroom today. She told me her school grapevine had revealed only good comments about me. Apparently, Hilda told me, the word on the street is that I am “nifty”. I’ll take it!
Hilda also said, “I’m not surprised at your early success, Daniel. You have great enthusiasm for your subject matter. You also have an endearing boyish quality when it comes to sharing that enthusiasm. I can only congratulate you, Mr. Denison. You’ve pulled off the impossible in only two months; relating to the children on their level while maintaining your position as head of the classroom.” High praise indeed, especially when it comes from a teacher I admire more than any other.
Needless to say, I didn’t tell her a large part of my enthusiasm comes from my determination to shove Ernie into the past and concentrate on my future as a teacher. Besides, if I am to truly succeed as a teacher at Porterfield High, Ernie would only be a liability. It isn’t fair to have to make such a choice, but Mother Jacks made it for me, didn’t she?
Wednesday, November 9, 1960
I believe the crisp, refreshing snap to the air today has less to do with the season as to the victory of John Kennedy. The majority of my students seem genuinely pleased at his election. It seems very much an “out with the old, in with the new” in their eyes. Mine, too, for what it is worth. I believe Senator Kennedy can steer our country in the right direction for the remainder of the twentieth century. More importantly, the students’ interest in the election, its outcome, and the prospect of the Kennedy presidency can only be a positive step for our young people.
I’ll bet Mother Jacks and her Birch buddies spent the day in bed with sick headaches!
Wednesday, November 23, 1960
My good intentions regarding this journal have certainly gone by the wayside. Well, in my own defense, I’ve been busy.
Hilda gave up her guardianship of The Zephyr to Mrs. Hudson this year. Although Mrs. Hudson was excited to become faculty advisor for the yearbook, she’s had a difficult time balancing her classroom work with her extracurricular responsibilities. As I had been on The Zephyr staff and knew my way around yearbook layouts and students who cared more about getting their names in print rather than producing a successful yearbook, Hilda asked me to give Mrs. Hudson a hand. I’ve put in many more hours than I had planned, but I believe the yearbook is in good shape. Mrs. Hudson can certainly handle it from here. If I get another S.O.S. from her, I plan on requesting Hilda pass the yearbook responsibilities over to me for 1961-1962.
Speaking of Hilda, I’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner with her and her family tomorrow. It’s no surprise she took note of my status as sole occupant of this house and invited me to join her family. That’s simply the sort of person she is.
“Good ole Mrs. P.,” Rick said wistfully. He laid Daniel’s Book 4 in his lap. He and Ed were both eager to read it now, determined to find out what had happened to him.
“Talk about the long arm of coincidence, though,” Ed said from the other side of the bed. “Daniel was actually in this house!”
“Yeah,” Rick said thoughtfully. “Makes me wish Mrs. P. had kept a journal.”
“Maybe she did and we just haven’t found it.”
“I guess we need to make sure there aren’t any loose stones in our hearth,” Rick said, picking up the book. “Let’s see if he recorded what they had for dinner.”
Thursday, November 24, 1960
Thanksgiving dinner with the Penfields was the best remedy for my lingering self-pity over Ernie. The Penfields are the sort of gentle folk you often read about, but seldom encounter in today’s world. They had invited several other “singles” to their table, and both the dinner and the conversation were nourishment for both body and soul.
George Penfield, as generous and kind as his wife, drove me to Fort Wayne after our meal so I could spend some time with Evie. Finding her alert and responsive and eager to hear about my job was another reason to give thanks. She seems confident Dr. Langer will release her by Christmas. I hope so! Spending the day with the Penfields makes me long for company of my own at home.
Monday, November 28, 1960
A letter from Dr. Langer arrived in today’s mail confirming what Evie told me on Thanksgiving Day. He believes Evie will be ready to come home where she belongs before the holidays. Perhaps now we can put the ugly experience of Joe Fountain behind us.
I was so pleased by this news I risked life and limb climbing through the attic hatch to see if the old Christmas baubles were still intact. I found the old ornament box and several strings of lights. I’ll get someone to drive me to the Christmas tree lot by the I.G.A. before Evie is discharged. Decorating a tree can be my “welcome home” to her. That was always her favorite part of Christmas when we were younger.
“That’s funny,” Ed commented. “I cleaned out every box from that attic and I didn’t find any Christmas stuff.”
“Maybe that was the one box Evie actually threw away,” said Rick.
Tuesday, December 6, 1960
The English department met today to reaffirm our curriculum outlines for the upcoming second semester. I’m stuck with the usual Dickensian treat for my sophomores – A Tale of Two Cities. I once again made my useless request for a change to a twentieth century author, Ray Bradbury perhaps. I suggested Fahrenheit 451 would be a pertinent choice, and one that would go over the heads of the Birchers. Everyone laughed, and Hilda, with that perpetual twinkle in her eye, suggested I was a glutton for punishment. Well, she’s right, of course. We’ve heard nothing from the Birchers since the original brouhaha, so it is probably best to let narrow-minded dogs lie.
“Did you read A Tale of Two Cities when you were a sophomore?” Rick asked.
Ed shook his head. “No. We were spar
ed. The movie Oliver! was supposed to come out later that year, so we got Oliver Twist instead.”
“Have you ever read A Tale of Two Cities?”
“No I haven’t, and don’t you start. When I’m the mood for Dickens I’ll ask for him, thank you very much.”
Wednesday, December 7, 1960
It occurred to me today that I could at least do something about my lack of enthusiasm for Dickens, and possibly even the students’ as well. I suddenly recalled the enjoyable semester I spent with dear Professor Forrest at Crestland College. He is a Dickensian scholar of some note, and I couldn’t help but think a spirited talk from him would get A Tale of Two Cities off to a rousing start. Hilda gave her permission, so I’m going to write to him as soon as possible and see if he would be willing to share his enthusiasm with a group of lowly high school students and their humble teacher.
Sunday, December 11, 1960
We had the loveliest snowfall overnight. It’s put even me into the Christmas spirit. I am so looking forward to Evie’s arrival!
Wednesday, December 14, 1960
Dr. Langer called today. He has set Evie’s discharge for this Saturday. I asked Hilda if her husband might be willing to drive me to Fort Wayne once again to pick her up. She promised George’s cooperation. Wonderful timing! There will be only three days of classes left before Christmas break. That will allow plenty of time to be at home and for me to do my best to make Evie comfortable.
