Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  “What’s wrong? She didn’t get outside, did she? You know how easily she catches cold.”

  “Everything’s fine. She’s taking a nap but said to tell you meow.”

  “Very funny. I know she’s too mad to talk to me.” I decided to call back after JoAnn left. She assured me Thelma and the plants were doing well. I told her about the trip and said I’d keep in touch.

  As we were about to hang up, JoAnn said, “Hey, did your Iowa friend reach you? Gloria something? I gave her your sister’s phone number. Hope that was okay.”

  “I guess so. She never called anyway.” Gloria Worley—her name was Landers then—and I had graduated from high school together but the friendship had fizzled to Christmas cards and a rare phone call.

  “Oh, one more thing. I almost forgot, you received a postcard from Notre Dame yesterday. You know, that college back East—the fighting Irish. Funny thing is, it’s blank. No message. Think it’s an ad? Or do you know someone at Notre Dame, a strong, silent quarterback maybe?” JoAnn laughed at her own joke. “I’ll throw it away.”

  “No, don’t do that.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound too sharp. “I like to see all my mail, even the ads.” She told me I was crazy and we said goodbye.

  Another postcard. This made thirty-seven.

  Andy showed up for coffee and juice carrying several envelopes and a newspaper. I recalled seeing a mailbox at the end of the lane.

  “Oh, you got the mail,” I said. “I didn’t hear the car start.”

  She laughed as though I’d made a joke. “Look at this,” she said and tossed me a small note card picturing a pink butterfly. The inside had one line written in purple ink: “Thank you for coming to my bridal shower.”

  I handed the card back and waited for the explanation. “Ashley,” Andy said. “Florence’s granddaughter.”

  “I didn’t realize you and Florence were friends.”

  “We’re not, really, but I’m in the phone book.” She took a swig of coffee. “I wasn’t at the shower.”

  I laughed. “Well, the note is a little short. She could have added ‘It was good to see you.’”

  None of the rest of the mail topped the thank you note, and we settled down to reading the newspapers, today’s Des Moines Register and the weekly Cherry Glen Chronicle. After a few paper-crinkling minutes, Andy got my attention with: “Oh my. Tragic.”

  “What? Another missing teenager?”

  She pointed to an article on the front page of the CGC.

  CAT FOUND DEAD

  By Harriett Purcell

  One cat is dead which might have been a result of a BB gun being shot in the area of the 300 block of South 2nd Ave. Wednesday, according to the Cherry Glen Police Department. Cherry Glen Police Chief Bart Welch said an officer arrived on the scene and found the dead cat which is believed to be a stray. Welch said the case is under investigation and no arrests have been made. “Apparently there are some stray cats there and we are working with the Animal Rescue League to check that out,” he said.

  “Tragic indeed,” I said, pretending not to notice Andy laughing at me and glad I’d already made sure Thelma was safe. “Poor kitty.”

  We admired the day and avoided talking about anything of importance. Andy stared out the window and I paced the floor. Occasionally, I stared out the window and she paced the floor. I was anxious to speak to the doctor, and the weekend stood in the way. Andy had an appointment Monday morning.

  Suddenly she slapped her fingers against her cheek. “I forgot! While you were gone yesterday, Gloria called.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’d she want?”

  “The Fergusons are coming home and they’re getting the friends together next Saturday. Gloria wanted to include you but wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “You mean because I’m afraid to fly and don’t drive farther than five miles, although ten is possible if traffic isn’t heavy?”

  “She didn’t say that. You should go. You’re only an hour away.”

  “John and Kay Ferguson have been missionaries in South Africa for the last ten years, living without electricity among wild animals. What on earth would I say to them? It’s not like we have a lot in common.”

  “They won’t be the only ones there. Why don’t you join the group?”

  “Next weekend? Can’t. We have other plans.”

  “Jane, you can’t avoid Beemer forever. You need happier memories than funerals.”

  “I’ll go sometime, just not Saturday. Besides, I know we had good times. You have pictures.”

  The mention of photographs spurred dragging out the albums followed by several hours of looking through them and reminiscing. One black and white snapshot with scalloped edges showed our parents as a young couple sitting on the ground by a lake, Dad behind Mother with his arms around her waist. Mother didn’t seem worried about grass stains in those days. Andy appeared on the next page, followed by pictures of both Andy and me, always the two of us. Andy was several inches taller with curly hair and bangs. My hair, which looked mouse brown even without color film, was parted in the middle and held off my face with cloth bows fastened to bobby pins. Dusty, the kid next door, appeared in several, eating ice cream or watermelon in our backyard, holding a baseball bat, shooting hoops in the driveway. Later pictures included Roger, usually with his arm around Andy while I stood off to the side. After my high school graduation picture, I disappeared. Then Roger was gone too. I closed the book. “No wedding pictures,” I said.

  “This family doesn’t have much luck with weddings. Mom and Dad got married during the Depression, you ran off, and I . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. Roger wasn’t something she talked about.

  “They never forgave me for eloping with Marvin, did they?”

  “You hurt them. They thought you were too young. Eighteen was too young.”

  “Yeah, I realized that when Chris turned into a teenager. You notice there aren’t any pictures of Marvin or Chris. They never met their only grandchild. Sad.” I looked at Andy. “You told me marrying Marvin was the right thing to do, claimed if I didn’t I’d regret it forever.” I’d always listened to Andy. She’d led the way my whole life—went down slides first, learned to swim first, buttoned my coat on the way to school because she was cold. She taught me how to use eyeliner, practiced dance steps with me, told the neighborhood kids if they wanted her on their softball team they had to take me too.

  “I thought they’d get over being mad and we’d be a family again,” she said. “How could I know a year later Mom and Dad would be dead?”

  I sat quietly, remembering what I didn’t want to remember. “Maybe I should have gone to college like they wanted, but you know how it is. At that age four years is forever. Marvin said he wasn’t going to wait around while I grew up, so I went with him.” I sighed. “Then everyone’s pride got in the way and by the time we came back, it was for a funeral. I’ll never get over feeling bad about that.” I handed Andy the book. “You know what? Sometimes I’m angry at them for dying before we got everything resolved. I realize that sounds dumb, but it’s the way I feel.”

  “I understand.” Andy squeezed my hand. “First I lost you and then the folks and then Roger.” Her voice trembled and she looked away before fixing a smile on her face. “But I got you back. Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you hadn’t eloped with Marvin?” She didn’t know eloping wasn’t the part I questioned. If only Dusty . . .

  “Either I would have had a big wedding and lived happily ever after or there would have been no Marvin and no Chris.”

  “And you would have had a chance to find out who you were.”

  “I know who I am. I’m Marvin Emerling’s wife.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’ll always be Marvin’s wife—and Chris’s mother and the sister of Andy Stendler, the famous artist and owner of 240 acres of
frozen tundra.” We laughed, glad to leave painful subjects. I mentioned the church supper for Elizabeth Stone. Andy didn’t seem excited but I knew she’d go. I left her sitting with the album on her lap while I went to the kitchen for a little pick-me-up, something with nuts on it.

  Eleven

  Andy and I arrived at the Last Chance Christian Church shortly after five-thirty. I hadn’t gone to a church supper in years. We’d grown up as active Methodists. Although Dad seldom went, we attended with Mother every Sunday, seeing and being seen.

  We followed the hand-lettered signs down six concrete steps to the basement, stepping over patches of ice. A gray-haired, strongly perfumed man with a pink face and a cashbox greeted us with a curt nod and asked for twelve dollars for the two of us. Andy handed him a twenty and waved away the change, receiving another nod and a small smile in return.

  The parish ladies were serving food in a large rectangular room with bad acoustics. Children‘s drawings of religious events decorated cement block walls painted a sort of dingy yellow. A trip through the food line equipped each of us with a plate of chicken and noodles over mashed potatoes plus a side of canned green beans. A selection of gelatin salads, green with pear chunks and red with banana slices, shimmered on a nearby table. They offered a choice of coffee or tea, and darned if I could tell the difference.

  We carried our food to one of the tables covered with white paper and topped with centerpieces of fake red geraniums. A plate of assorted cake pieces sat by the salt and pepper shakers. I eyed the chocolate trimmed with an inch of dark frosting and walnuts.

  I’d worn black wool slacks and a blue cable-knit sweater and seemed to be in style, although the sweater was the wrong color. Iowa Hawkeye sweatshirts—gold with black letters, black with gold letters—were in abundance along with a smattering of red Iowa State Cyclone shirts. The Cyclones had had a next-year season but much of the conversation centered on the Hawks’ chances in the upcoming NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. “Are you a Hawks fan?” I whispered to Andy.

  She looked around, then shook her head. “Don’t tell anyone.” People glanced our direction. A few smiled and said hello but no one sat with us, perhaps sensing our disinterest in the Hawks. Andy jabbed a fork into the gelatin, which trembled but held firm. “Did you know you can’t be buried in Iowa without Jell-O?” she asked.

  “Really?”

  “It’s true. I’ve been conducting research, and they always have Jell-O at funerals. I think it’s some kind of Midwestern rite.”

  I tried to think what they served in San Jose but couldn’t even remember what we’d fed people when Marvin died.

  Andy adopted an expression of concern. “Lately though, I’ve noticed a trend toward pasta salad. Could be a problem.”

  My mind couldn’t come up with an appropriate comeback. Talking about funerals didn’t seem like a good idea.

  We were plowing our way through more calories than Andy usually ate in a week when Florence stopped next to our table. She had on an emerald green pantsuit decorated with larger-than-life sunflowers plus the contents of her jewelry box. “Mind if I sit down?” She settled across from us without waiting for a response. “Good turnout, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” we said.

  “They’ve raised over two thousand dollars.” I admired a piece of meat I’d located among the noodles and figured that was about a thousand dollars a chicken. “Have you spoken to Bob and Esther?” Florence motioned to the tragic couple sitting under a crayoned interpretation of the loaves and fishes—an orange Jesus rising out of a purple and green submarine sandwich, presumably seafood.

  “Not yet. We’ll go over as soon as the crowd lightens up,” I said. Andy kicked my ankle.

  Florence spoke to everyone and introduced us. “This is Andy Stendler, the artist, and her sister from California.” People smiled, nodded, ran out of conversation. The noise from the children’s squeals as they chased each other around the tables made talking difficult but Florence did her best to supply biographical data. “Oh look, Marie Spicer’s daughter came.” She aimed her fork to our right. “She lives in Sioux Falls so Marie hardly ever gets to see her.”

  “Sioux Falls, South Dakota? Isn’t that the next state?”

  “Yeah, but Marie can’t get there. No planes from here and it’s a four-hour drive.”

  “I see.”

  Florence’s fork continued to identify people of interest. “You know Bob Stone of course. And those two men over there are the other Bobs. We have three: Rich Bob, Poor Bob, and Bob.” She didn’t explain and we didn’t ask. “That’s Bob Stone’s father standing by the wall.” I turned and found two deep brown eyes staring at me. He was a big man, edges softened with age, with strong shoulders and wavy silver hair. I felt my pulse quicken and concentrated on chasing a green bean around my plate. Good grief, since when did I get all tingly at the sight of a good-looking man with sexy hair?

  Two elderly gentlemen with identical, neatly trimmed white beards surrounding the reddest lips I’d ever seen on a man and wearing bib overalls and ironed flannel shirts carried their trays past us. Florence patted her hair and smoothed down her blouse as she said hello. They dipped their heads and bestowed shy smiles. “Twins?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, the Farringham boys, Earl and Merle. No one knows which one’s older—not even me. They keep, you know, changing what they tell people.” She giggled. “Own a big farm north of town. Never married, either of them. People say it’s because they do everything together.” She watched them sit down at a table close to the door. “Oh, look at that Earl. He knows drinking coffee late at night will keep him awake.” She picked up our plate of desserts. “You want cake? Better take it now. Earl’s table doesn’t have the kind he likes.” I reached for the chocolate but Florence pulled the plate away. “Not that one. It’s Earl’s favorite.” I settled for the angel food as Andy’s elbow jabbed my ribs.

  Florence scanned the room one more time before moving closer to Earl. “See that hootsy-tootsy woman over there in the tight black sweater? The one with all those gold and silver hoops in her ears?” Florence thought someone was wearing too much jewelry? Andy and I exchanged glances and swiveled our heads. “She works in Des Moines,” Florence said. “Drives there every day. An hour each direction.” She paused while we absorbed that shocker and then leaned forward to deliver the confidential part: “She’s not, you know, very friendly. Didn’t join the Neighborhood Club.” Andy avoided my look, and I knew she didn’t belong either. I sighed. Cherry Glen had rules, and my piece of cake came from a mix.

  “Why’d you let her push you around?” Andy asked when we were alone again.

  “I didn’t. Besides, it was only a dessert.” I set down my fork. “What do you know about Florence?”

  “You mean other than Earl doesn’t stand a chance? Nothing. Why?”

  “She seems interesting, that’s all. Think she knows which of those guys is which?”

  Andy shrugged. “Does it matter?” She punched my upper arm. “Speaking of interesting, I guess you noticed Bob’s father. No, don’t shake your head at me. I saw the look you gave him.”

  I felt myself flush. I didn’t need to be caught up in this man’s good looks. “I’m sure he’s very nice,” I said, folding my paper napkin into precise squares. What was I, sixteen? My years of checking out the new boy in class were behind me, but I had to admit the freedom to eat what and when I wanted had waned, and I missed being held. So yes, I suppose I was open to the idea of a more up-to-date relationship—although preferably with someone closer to home than 2000 miles.

  When our plates were as clean as they were going to get, we went to shake hands with Bob and Esther. Bob introduced me to his wife, a small, homespun woman in a simple blue dress, hair parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears, rimless glasses, no jewelry or makeup.

  While Andy talked to Esther, I chatted with Bob.
“Sorry about your daughter,” I said. “No wonder you didn’t know whether she’d graduate.” I caught Andy’s sharp glance out of the corner of my eye. My life needed an erase button. Bob frowned and stared at the floor. “Florence said your father’s here,” I said, the very essence of casual.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s nice. Where’s he from?”

  “South.”

  “Missouri?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, you mean South like in the Civil War?”

  “Yep.”

  I pushed on. “What state?”

  “North Carolina.”

  I clapped my hands together. “Really? My daughter lives in Raleigh.” I waited for him to say something about coincidence and small world. Silly me. “I don’t see him right now,” I said, looking around the room.

  “Went home.”

  “Home? You mean to North Carolina?” I couldn’t believe my jolt of disappointment. “Nope.”

  “Oh, back to your farm.”

  “Yep.”

  “I see.” Still casual. “Is he staying long?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Uh-huh.” I took a breath. “How about your mother? She come with him?”

  “Nope.”

  Andy rescued Bob before I could delve further into family details, and I sat down beside Esther. “Nice turnout,” I said.

  “Yes, it is. Everyone’s been so kind.”

  After we exhausted our supply of small talk—yes, I was having a nice visit in Iowa, yes, it was cold—I bought up Elizabeth‘s disappearance. Esther seemed relieved to talk about it. She said at first she thought Elizabeth had stayed late for some school activity, but when they hadn’t heard from her by suppertime she began to worry. Bob told her not to be ridiculous. By eight o’clock she’d checked with all of Elizabeth’s friends. Bob said he could see Esther wasn’t going to rest until she found Elizabeth, and he drove her around town to look. She told about the rising feeling of panic and helplessness as it became obvious Elizabeth was missing. The next day they called Cherry Glen’s police chief, who assured them his officers would start searching immediately. She described the following days and nights: being unable to sleep, running to the phone every time it rang, not believing her daughter was gone, thinking this must be a mistake. The police added Elizabeth to the state missing persons database, and friends put up posters. Their daughter had been gone almost six weeks now. Life went on but they looked for her everyplace they went. People began to leave as the hour for prime-time television neared.