Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  “You do?” My heart thumped.

  “Of course, silly. Just wait, he’ll be back from basketball practice soon and then you can see him too.” She shook her finger in my face. “You always were a foolish girl. How are your parents? Your mother never comes to see me.” Then Mrs. Laine frowned as a ray of memory stabbed through her fog. “There was an accident, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “A long time ago?”

  “Yes, a long time ago.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “So many people gone.” Her fingers darted out and grabbed my sleeve. “Janie, I have to tell you something. Something bad.”

  My stomach lurched. The weight was back on my heart. Please don’t let her say Dad drove off the road on purpose.

  “I can’t put on earrings by myself anymore,” she whispered.

  The relief I felt shamed me as I remembered her kindnesses. Always freshly baked cookies after school and hot chocolate when we came in from ice skating. One Christmas she’d stayed up most of the night making my angel costume for the church pageant. I took hold of her hand. “That’s okay. It’s time to let someone do things for you now.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes. “Yes, I can do that.”

  I thought she’d fallen asleep but her eyes opened and her expression changed to puzzled. “My nephew has been visiting me. I didn’t know I had a nephew. Do I have one?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I don’t know how.” Mrs. Laine’s voice sounded weaker. “Sometimes I get confused. I’m so sleepy.”

  Dusty had often talked about being the only child of parents who were themselves only children. But he’d insisted that was a good thing. He never had to attend family reunions or wear scratchy sweaters knit by a doting aunt. Andy and I knew he envied our large, noisy family gatherings. Mother was the youngest of five, all married with children of their own. Dad had a sister in Iowa City we used to trade Thanksgivings with. One year she asked what she could bring and Dad told her a cooked turkey.

  I kissed Mrs. Laine’s cold, peppermint-scented cheek and promised to visit again before I went back to California. Then I drove to Cherry Glen to tell Andy the Beemer news. Most of it.

  Twenty-Five

  The following Friday I had my hair styled at Vera’s again, although I hated to make the cat move off his chair. I told myself I wanted to look good for Andy’s surgery but who was I kidding?

  “Now you’ll be pretty for the wedding tomorrow,” Vera said as she whisked the plastic cape off my shoulders and handed me a mirror. “I’m doing the bride’s hair in the morning—and Florence’s naturally. She told me you and your sister would be there.”

  Wedding? Tomorrow? My eyes shot to the John Deere calendar on the wall. Today was the twenty-seventh, making tomorrow the twenty-eighth. Wedding day. Also date day. Darn. I mentally kicked myself for not connecting the twenty-eighth and a week from Saturday. Maybe I should get one of those intelligent phones in case I ever needed to schedule two appointments again. JoAnn loved hers and was forever waving her hand across it and saying Presto! Of course I suspected the whole smart phone thing was a joke. Next thing you knew, she’d be talking into her watch. Meanwhile, what to do? Could I manage both events?

  “What time’s the wedding?” I asked, fingers crossed.

  “Four o’clock. They’re going to have a big dinner and dance at the gymnasium afterward.”

  I raced back to Andy’s and found her examining the dresses in her closet.

  “What do you think of the black?” she asked as I burst into the room. “Too somber? Maybe the green.”

  “You mean to wear to Florence’s almost-granddaughter’s wedding?”

  “What are you talking about? I never said I’d go to any wedding.” Her eyes narrowed. “What have you done? Did you say we’d go?”

  I smoothed the silky fabric on the green dress. “This one’s nice.” I said. “It’s a good color for you.”

  “Jane?”

  I cleared my throat. “I may have said something about going.”

  “Jane!”

  “Well, Florence asked and it seemed to mean so much to her.” My fingers pleated the cloth until Andy snatched it away. “What are we going to do?” I asked. Andy always had a solution.

  She hung the dresses back in the closet. “I don’t know what you’re going to do but I’m going to Des Moines. Leland has tickets to a play at the Civic Center and reservations at that new French restaurant. You’re on your own.”

  “Oh shoot.” I stared at the floor. “Hey, I’ve got it. What about asking the guys to go to the wedding instead?”

  She looked at me as though I weren’t quite bright. “Speak for yourself. I already told you I’m going to Des Moines.” She left me sitting on the bed staring at the phone.

  I called Tim. “How strongly do you feel about Duke basketball?” I asked.

  Twenty-Six

  Tim was nice enough to forego the game so we could attend the wedding of someone he’d never met. He picked me up at three-thirty. I wore my all-purpose black dress and the pearls Marvin had given me for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. Tim had on a light gray suit and looked very sharp. He said I was pretty.

  When we entered the church Florence, a vision in a long electric-blue silk skirt, white lace blouse, and many carats of cubic zirconias, was standing in the back, teetering on floral-embroidered four-inch stiletto pumps with a satin wrap-around ankle tie. She seemed surprised to see Tim.

  “Andy couldn’t make it,” I said.

  “Oh.” Florence looked disappointed and reminded me of the old dog who waited outside the door of our favorite steak place. Like him, Florence was used to disappointment. Waving the letdown aside, she said, “Well, that’s okay. At least the noted child authority is here.”

  “Who?” Tim asked.

  “Long story. I’ll show you the poster later.”

  One of the bride’s uncles ushered us to our pew. The groom brought in his mother, stepmother, and two grandmothers, all attired in somber black. Florence and the bride’s mother, who was wearing what looked like a pink prom dress, were barely in place when the two bridesmaids marched down the aisle. Despite their chartreuse gowns, the attendants were beautiful, perhaps rented. The bride followed on her brother’s arm. I wouldn’t have recognized her from Florence’s description. She came to his waist, and while her strapless gown was lovely, it needed less fabric in the train and more in the seams. The groom, flanked by his cousin and another of the bride’s uncles, stood at the altar staring at his feet.

  The brief ceremony included the groomsman uncle belting out a rock song complete with Elvis-like hip gyrating, something about finally finding each other after running wild and free in their younger years. Given that the bride and groom looked to be about twelve, I thought the only place they’d run wild and free was the school playground.

  Tim dodged the receiving line and left it to me to say something nice to the bride while he went for the car. We drove to the high school in near silence.

  “Guess that wasn’t as much fun as a basketball game,” I finally said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Tim said gamely. “What did you say to her?”

  “I said her gown was pretty. And it was—just not on her. Too bad she couldn’t have gotten a larger size. Florence told me they were out of hers but she thought she’d lose enough weight before the wedding so this one would fit.” I chuckled. “Every woman has fallen into that trap.”

  The gym was decorated with orange and yellow balloons. Long tables covered with white butcher paper and yellow construction-paper rose petals were jammed together. Tim bought me a glass of white wine from the cash bar and told me to drink fast, the bar would close after the prayer. As we drank we chatted with the other guests. “Lovely wedding.” “Yes, wasn’t it?”

  The wedding party arrived amid a swi
rl of guest-blown soap bubbles. The bride and groom drove in separate cars, apparently not yet grasping the two-become-one concept.

  Florence swooped in to hug us. “What did you think? Isn’t she just the loveliest bride you ever saw? And the dress, isn’t it great? You couldn’t tell she had to buy a smaller size, could you? Her mother made the veil.” Said bride had removed said veil and I saw her face clearly for the first time. Orthodontia had not been part of her childhood, but her brown hair cascaded in Vera’s curls.

  Waitresses inched their way among the tables to hand each guest a plate containing a thin strip of deli ham in a bun, a dainty scoop of pasta salad, and several potato chips. The crowd wedged us together and my arm jostled Tim’s as we ate, plus my hip was pressing against his. Definitely the warmest I’d felt in Iowa. I touched his hand on the surface of the table—only the ends of the fingers, only lightly. Conversation was difficult in the hubbub but we leaned close together. A dab of mayonnaise stuck to his cheek and, without thinking, I reached up and removed it with my finger. The intimacy of the gesture struck me and I sat back, embarrassed, but Tim didn’t seem disturbed.

  Dinner over, the bride and groom shoved decorated cake into each other’s faces, which was the most attention I’d seen them pay each other, and joined the rest of the wedding party at the table with champagne flutes under the scoreboard. When prompted, the best man toasted the happy couple: “Yeah, me and Scott have known each other a long time and I been through some tough times with him. He ain’t never been able to keep no girl before and swore if he got another one he’d hang onto her no matter what she was like.”

  When it was her turn, the maid of honor raised her glass and said no one had told her she’d have to speak but, ah, she’d known the bride a long time. Then she sat down, looking relieved.

  The groom’s mother and stepmother were having a difference of opinion that was becoming hard to ignore when the disc jockey began playing music. The newlyweds obligingly jogged around the floor to a song Tim told me was from Dirty Dancing, something about wanting to spend their last night together before ending a summer romance. Most of us were distracted from the words by the bride’s mother and Florence, who were making the first dance a foursome.

  “What are they doing?” Tim asked. .

  “Holding up the train so she doesn’t step on it,” I said. Then I looked again. “No, I think they’re trying to keep her dress from falling off. The zipper burst or something.”

  The song ended and the couple found new partners. Tim tilted his head toward them. “Think the dress is safe?” he asked.

  “We can only hope. They probably safety-pinned it to her skin.”

  By then the groom had exchanged his mother for his stepmother, who held him at arm’s length. The bride danced with her brother. He bent over so she could reach his shoulders. I think he placed her feet on top of his.

  Tradition satisfied, the DJ urged everyone onto the floor. Since we’d already eaten the cake Tim had retrieved from the dessert table, we were free to join the fun. Would he ask me to dance? Would my knees give out before the song ended? We agreed to wait for a slow one but after ten minutes Tim gave up and asked if I was ready to leave. For once, the cool outside air felt good on my cheeks.

  He took me to the Cherry Pit for pie. I thought my piece of wedding cake had been very small and, to my delight, Tim apparently felt the same way. We both chose apple because that was the only kind they had. The waitress recommended ordering it “a la mode with ice cream” and told us we were lucky. Usually by this hour the pie was gone but today business had been slow.

  “Everyone at the wedding?” I asked.

  “I’m not.” She sniffed and went to get our food, her back stiff.

  Tim laughed and said he didn’t think my serving would have extra ice cream. His feet slid over to touch mine beneath the table. Neither of us moved. I could feel my heart speed.

  Finding something to talk about wasn’t a problem. After sharing background information (he thought Thelma sounded “interesting,” which I took to mean adorable) we moved on to other topics—the wedding, basketball, his missing granddaughter. Sometime during the third cup of coffee conversation trailed off, and we just sat there listening to pans banging in the kitchen. After a few minutes I looked out the window and noticed the big ice-covered monument standing guard. Motioning toward it I asked, “Who’s Colonel Cherry? Oh, I know he founded the town but what did he do? Fight off Indians? Defend the territory from invaders?”

  “You don’t know about the town father, the most famous man in the history of Cherry Glen? Shame on you.” At my sheepish look, he laughed. “I’m kidding. He never exactly did anything, He didn’t even found the town. It used to be Hamilton or Hilton or something. All he did was give a lot of money to the city. When the dollars started pouring in, they renamed the town and slapped Cherry on a few buildings—school, medical center, library, probably some others—whatever his money built.” He drank the last of his coffee. “About the only thing not named for him is Drusilla Park and that’s for his sister.”

  Laughing, I said, “I had no idea. When I first heard of Cherry Glen I thought there’d be groves of cherry trees and a cherry blossom festival every spring.”

  “No festivals. I don’t think he smiled, let alone danced.”

  “How about fighting off Indians?”

  “Nope. Not invaders either. Never fought off anything, wasn’t in the army at all, just liked being called colonel. And with the money he had, people would have called him God if he wanted.”

  With that, Tim pushed up out of the booth and held my coat for me. Time to go. Surprised, I noticed the waitress was flashing the lights to indicate closing time. So soon?

  Tim drove me home and walked me to the door. Would he kiss me? Did I want him to?

  “Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, taking my hand in both of his. “I had a good time.”

  “Oh, come on, I know you’re just being polite. You gave up a basketball game for a boring wedding.”

  A hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips. “It could have been worse.” I waited a minute for him to explain how. Then another. At last he said, “Maybe next time we can do something different.” He squeezed my hand. “Would you like a next time? Because I would.”

  “Okay.” We could revise the poster to: Jane Emerling, noted child care authority and master of sparkling repartee.

  He watched me go inside and close the door. Should I have invited him in? For what? We’d just had coffee. We could have hung around until Leland brought Andy home in case they needed a chaperone. And done what while we were waiting? Something requiring a chaperone? I sighed. This dating thing could be complicated.

  I went to bed. Andy would have to fend for herself.

  Twenty-Seven

  By Monday Andy and I had said all we were going to about Saturday. I’d told her about the wedding and Cherry Pit pie, the parts that would make her laugh. In return, she described the Civic Center play and the food my vegetarian sister and Leland had eaten at Big Steer. No mention of the French restaurant reservations. We kept the stories suitable for family entertainment but I noticed the same glow in her that she probably saw in me.

  The phone hadn’t rung at all yesterday and seemed to be laughing at me. Plagued by the need to do something besides brush the lunch crumbs off the counter, I said, “How about driving into town for groceries? We’re out of bread and milk.” And Hershey bars.

  Andy stopped staring out the patio door. “What? Oh, groceries. Would you mind going without me? I want to paint while the light’s good.”

  “Uh-huh, and you need to be home in case anyone special calls.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Andy smiled and I waited for the giggle. “Well, maybe.”

  “I should go to the library too, see what they have that I can use for my Neighborhood Club talk. You owe me big time
for that.” Andy started to laugh but stopped when I added, “I can work on it while you’re in surgery.” Darn. Why did I have to remind her?

  The library reminded me of the one in Beemer where, growing up, I’d gone every Saturday morning without fail. On the left was adult fiction; on the back wall, the children’s section. Bertha, wrapped in a gray wool cardigan that matched her hair, directed me to the little tables and chairs. After much deliberation I selected four books and started toward the desk to have them set aside.

  Bertha was scanning the room, left to right, for signs of disobedience when a tall young woman wearing a fur-collared frost-blue coat over matching slacks, shoes, and bracelet stepped in front of me and slid a novel across the counter. The librarian frowned and shook her head. “I can too check this out,” the woman said. “I’m twenty-four years old and getting married next week.”

  Bertha shielded the title from prying eyes and looked stern. “I don’t care. This book is not suitable for an unmarried woman.”

  The young lady, bristling with indignation, opened her mouth to respond, perhaps to ask how an unmarried librarian would know about the book’s suitability. Before she could speak, two older women, one who looked like a silo in blue velour and one with red cheeks and curly blond hair, burst through the door, out of breath and ready to explode with news. “Did you hear? Someone robbed the bank!”

  “The Mid-Iowa? No! When?”

  Both mouths opened but the blue velour carrying an armload of Danielle Steele books spoke first. “One o’clock.”