Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “I bless the man or woman who created A/C every day in the summer. As long as our window units keep humming, we can breathe. On the other hand, just thinking about my electric bill makes me shiver. See you at the crop Monday night?”

  “ ’Spect so.”

  “I’m bringing my Lemon Poke Cake.”

  “Yum, yum. I better not tell Roger. He’s liable to take up scrapbooking just to come eat.”

  The rest of Saturday evening passed quickly. My priority was to safeguard the images Dodie downloaded from the guests’ memory cards. Much as I would have liked to stop and peruse the pictures, I’ve disciplined myself to first make backup CDs and label them. My fingers itched to examine closely the images from Roxanne’s camera, but all I could give them was a cursory once-over.

  I was torn between wanting to view them and spending quality time with Anya. Really, there was no contest. My priority was my child.

  The copying didn’t take long. There were only six memory cards with thirty-two images on each, because Merrilee and her mother hadn’t taken any photos.

  Dodie had explained our procedure to the group. “Each of you probably snapped a few photos your friends would like. We’re making it easy to share. We’ve downloaded your memory cards to Kiki’s computer. Kiki will post the photos to a website called Snapfish. Log into Snapfish tomorrow. Use the room code I’ve written on the back of my business cards. My home and store phone numbers are also there in case you have questions. You’ll be able to view each other’s photos in a gallery. Select twenty-eight photos you like and write down their ID numbers. We’ll develop them and put them in a bridal shower album customized for each of you.”

  “Each album will be different?” asked Tisha.

  “That’s right,” said Dodie. “The basic page layouts will be the same, but you can choose your favorites from among the photos each of you took.”

  Linda’s eyes were wide. “Everyone can see all our photos?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s my gift to each of you.” Mrs. Witherow weighed in with a smile. “Thank you for being such good friends to my darling daughter.”

  My thoughts returned to the here and now as I turned off my computer and stashed my CD copies of the memory card images in my bedroom dresser. By separating the duplicates from my work area, I avoided the possibility of grabbing CDs by mistake and “writing” over them.

  I checked on Anya. Her face scrunched in concentration as she worked on her father’s old laptop. She didn’t even look up when I came in. I eased myself down on the sofa and put my arm around her.

  “Mom, will you quiz me tomorrow on geography? I have to know the names of countries in the Middle East. This will be the last geography test for the year, and I’m glad.”

  “I know you’re looking forward to the end of school, honey.”

  “Mrs. Carter has a countdown on her blackboard. Only fourteen more days, not counting the half-days for tests.”

  I smiled to myself, thinking that poor Mrs. Carter was probably as excited about summer vacation as was her advisory group.

  “A lot of country names and borders have changed since I was a kid, but I’ll try to help.” I wanted to grab my camera and take a picture of my daughter hard at work. Anya is the star of many of my pages, and rightfully so. My daughter is as lovely on the inside as she is on the outside. For this, I would forever be grateful to George. Not only had my husband been a very handsome man, but George insisted we raise a kind, thoughtful and decent child. “Going to CALA, she’ll always run with a privileged crowd,” he said, “but she needs to know money doesn’t grow on trees.”

  Well, George, your daughter is learning how tough it is to make a dime the hard way, I said to his ghost. (I spent a lot of time talking to an ethereal version of my husband.) Oh, we’ll make it, Anya and I, but I really wonder, where was your head?

  On second thought, George, don’t answer that.

  How Gracie figured out which day was Sunday, I’ll never know. I bet David Letterman would pay mucho dog biscuits to have a calendar-reading Great Dane on his show. Promptly at eight each Sunday morning, her cold nose would touch whatever body part I’d exposed during my nightly struggle with the sheets. If I ignored her gentle prompt, she’d wedge her gigantic head under my arm and jiggle me. If that didn’t get my carcass moving, she’d hop on the bed and lick me in the face.

  The Benadryl gave me a medicinal hangover that made me feel like I was wearing a paper bag over my head. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My eyes felt gritty as if rubbed with sandpaper. The bee stings were still tender, and now, as I was coming back to consciousness, little pinpricks of pain zipped their way through my nervous system.

  But Gracie didn’t care. She knew her rights. Sundays are German apple pancake and bacon mornings, followed by a family romp at Babler State Park.

  The late spring morning felt blessedly chilly. It was difficult to regulate the temperature inside our home. As far as I could tell, this cracker box was built totally sans insulation. My landlord, Mr. Wilson, was a crusty old coot. The house had belonged to his parents. This inheritance formed the linchpin of his real estate holdings. I’d been attracted to the low rent and the fenced-in back yard. Mr. Wilson allowed how the place needed a “woman’s touch.” He got that right. A woman wielding a wrecking ball. The place should have been razed. I worried each time I turned on my computer that I’d blow fuses to kingdom come.

  I slipped on fuzzy house shoes and my blue chenille bathrobe with the yellow “rubber duckies.” Who wears all those skimpy nighties and sheer silk robes they sell at Victoria’s Secret? Maybe that’s the point: They’re to be discarded, not worn.

  I’m as cold as Nanook of the North. In the winter I sleep in a thread-bare sweatsuit and thick socks. George and I had two twin beds pushed together in our master bedroom. Often, I’d look over at his sleeping form and want to cuddle. But I’d never initiate it. Occasionally he would. Mostly, we lived like roommates with a shared purpose, parenting Anya. In some ways, our arrangement worked very well. What is it most experts say that couples fight about? Money and sex? Those weren’t issues for us.

  Marriages work or don’t work for the strangest reasons. We all have different needs. To find another person who’ll fulfill all those needs … well, I think that’s nearly impossible. To find a person who closely matches your needs and who has a commitment to the same goals is somewhat more likely. George and I both needed stability, a home base, a listening ear, a cooperative household, and a child-centered life.

  Gracie gave me her patented, “Where is my food?” expression immediately after her good-morning piddle. I fixed her a Sunday special, a bowl of kibble, a tablespoonful of canned food, with a dog biscuit on top.

  She sighed as I put the rest of the canned food back in the fridge. A tablespoon was all my budget and her digestive system would allow. Two months ago, Gracie got into the garbage and helped herself to a midnight snack of leftovers. I awakened the next morning to a kitchen floor turned toxic waste dump. The whole surface was a sea of brown and pinned in one corner was poor Gracie. I cleaned a path to her.

  “Poor baby,” I soothed her. I understand food issues. Left to her own devices, she’d eat anything not nailed down and not worry about the consequences.

  I felt her pain.

  I’d been there myself.

  Now we keep a bottle of Pepto-Bismol near the dog chow for those days when Gracie manages to steal human food. Even Anya knows how to fill a needleless syringe with the pink fluid, peel back a gooey dewlap, press the tube against teeth, and push the plunger hard and fast to give Gracie the squirt that cures. Inevitably, Gracie responds with a violent shake of the head which sends splats and splotches of pink flying.

  The scent of bacon mixed with the cinnamon and apple fragrance from the oversized pancake. Gracie sniffed the air eagerly. “Poor lamb,” I said as I patted her. “I’d love to share our bacon with you, drool face, but your innards wouldn’t like it a
s much as your chompers would.”

  Anya wandered in, wearing cute pink jammies festooned with hearts and kisses. Sheila had impeccable taste. She made sure Anya not only fit in at CALA but was a pacesetter where fashion was concerned.

  My child is a slow waker-upper. Rubbing her eyes, she pushed food around on her plate. She did pick out one piece of bacon and one slice of apple. With her fork, she foraged around in the pancake for another slice or two before taking her plate to the sink.

  I, on the other hand, ate every scrap of my helping. I savored the mix of maple syrup flavor, cinnamon, vanilla, and butter.

  I pointed to the untouched food on my child’s plate. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  She gave me a weak smile. “I’m not hungry.”

  I didn’t want to make her a member of the clean plate club like I’d been. The portions we serve in this country are outrageous. Encouraging children to overeat in order to save starving kids in Africa has contributed, in my humble opinion, to much of our problem with obesity. I slid the rest of the giant pancake into a plastic container for later.

  “Get dressed, Anya-Banana. Gracie’s ready for her run.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we were on Babler Access Road, passing a sign that announced “Dimont Development Inc.’s Babler Estates. Luxury homes in a beautiful setting.” Oh, George, I thought, you worked so hard on this subdivision full of luxury homes—and now your kid is living in substandard housing.

  We found a place to park and let Gracie roam the hills of Babler at the end of a retractable lead. Anya and I walked hand in hand. The earliest spring flowers—jonquils, crocus, and snowdrops—had faded on yellowing stalks. The next wave was gathering courage to burst into bloom. Bare tree branches were tipped in a watercolor wash of celery, celadon, mint, lime, and olive. In a week or two, the skyline would shout hosannah with verdant life. In spring and fall, there is no more beautiful place on earth than the hill country of Missouri.

  “Don’t you just hate those mean old bees for stinging you?” Anya’s jeans stepped in unison to mine as we followed in Gracie’s feverous wake.

  “Nah. It wasn’t personal.”

  One side of her mouth rose in a “huh?”

  “Anya, baby, those bees were trying to protect their food, their homes, and their families. I was an intruder. They would have stung anybody in that box. How can I be mad at them for trying to protect what they love? I’d do the same.”

  “Makes sense. But they were still awful nasty to you.” She walked beside me quietly. We both treasured spending time together now. I worried how this might change when she became a teen.

  We followed Gracie quietly and watched her joyous explorations with smiles on our faces. The big dog stopped at one point and sniffed the cup of a late-blooming jonquil, a real straggler of a flower.

  “Do you miss Daddy?” She asked me this frequently.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I miss him … a lot.”

  I put my arm around her. “I know you do.”

  “But Daddy watches over us.”

  “I think so.” And you’re doing a really poor job, George, I muttered under my breath. Get on the stick, pal. Or turn the job back over to a real guardian angel and find another line of work.

  “Gran misses Daddy. When I sleep over, I hear her cry at night.”

  Ah. Poor Sheila, I thought. Tough as nails in the light of day, but letting it all go in private. Too bad we didn’t know each other or like each other enough to share our grief.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine losing a child. Losing you would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Nothing anyone can do to a mother is as bad as hurting her baby.”

  Anya gave me a long, searching look. She made a fist and bumped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. You’re stuck with me.”

  “No, baby. We’re stuck with each other.”

  At that moment, Gracie bounded up to us and planted her muddy front paws in the middle of my chest.

  “Aw, Gracie. What have you done?”

  Anya giggled. “And Gracie’s stuck with both of us, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We grow accustomed to our troubles,” said Dodie in Yiddish. She translated the proverb for me as she turned off the television. A real news junkie, she started each day with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the New York Times. While working in her office, she kept one eye on the television or her ear tuned to the radio.

  “Good job at the bridal shower Saturday,” Dodie continued. “You ruined the gift box, and Mrs. Witherow suggested that I take it out of your wages. Even so, I’m betting we do a lot of business with the Ladue ladies now they’ve had a taste of your work. When we were loading up, a couple of them said they’re coming in to talk with you today.”

  Mrs. Witherow thought the box should come out of my wages? Crud. Welcome to the world of the poor and powerless. The less you have, the more you owe everybody around you. When we were rich, the freebies flowed fast and furiously. Now, when I needed the help, the stream of complimentary goodies had dried up.

  Life was not fair. No wonder the poor couldn’t get ahead, and the rich stayed furlongs out front.

  I took a deep breath. “Dodie, what do you know about Roxanne Baker?”

  Dodie gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Not a whole lot. Used to come in all the time and splash the cash. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “Um, did you ever see any pictures of her … and George?”

  “I don’t gossip about my customers.” Dodie pointedly examined her watch.

  I took the hint.

  No sooner had I counted the change drawer and flipped the window sign to OPEN, than Sally O’Brien burst through the front door of Time in a Bottle, chattering a mile a minute. Right behind her was Markie Dorring. Both women had packs of photos in their hands.

  “What a fantastic idea! Candid photos? Our shower albums will have photos from all of us? And you loaded them so fast! We were only out of the room for a minute.” The two women took turns talking, their excitement bubbling over.

  A minute? Their luncheon seemed to take ages, but then I was cold and hungry in the basement, setting up make ’n’ takes, and watching my bee stings swell to ugly proportions. Were rich people always this oblivious?

  Instead of dwelling on the remark, I said, “Yes. Candid photos are super. Now you’ll have pictures of yourselves as well as each other. You don’t want to be missing in action from your own life.”

  Sell the sizzle, I reminded myself. This was my livelihood. I need to keep them coming back for more.

  Dodie came out of her office and greeted the women. She left me to the mundane chores of getting the store ready for another day while she answered their questions.

  “You got my reminder message last night? Still got the card with the room code and site name?” Sitting at the powerful computer and professional-quality monitor, she walked the women through the selection process. While our customers oohed and aahed over the downloaded images, I worked on page layouts, being careful to leave spaces for their yet-to-come photos. Dodie had promised Mrs. Witherow a twelve-page album for each guest with fully designed pages capable of holding up to twenty-eight photos. For an additional fee, Dodie would also make available extra album pages that I would design.

  The women wanted to see the strap-bound albums Mrs. Witherow had selected. “The Tiffany blue and cream covers match the color scheme Merrilee selected for her wedding. The covers can be personalized, if you wish, with a title embossed in gold,” I explained.

  The women were impressed. I assured them I’d get the albums done as soon as possible. “Of course, since we already have a theme, the garden party, the pages will go together pretty quickly. Here, I’ll show you my work in progress.”

  I fanned out the patterns and solids I’d chosen to work with.

  “How do you know what to choose?” asked Markie. “I mean, there are scads of papers and products
. How do you know where to start?”

  I explained my system for mixing and matching papers. I favor the squint method. It’s highly scientific. You select a few papers, take a step back and squint. Usually you can tell right away if the patterns are harmonious.

  I guess I dazzled them with my brilliance. Or I buffaloed them with my baloney. Either way, Sally and Markie signed up for one-on-one scrapbook lessons.

  Seeing the women ready and raring to go tickled me. They were as enthusiastic as two little girls.

  “What if we can’t do this?” asked Sally. The negative thought brought her up short. “I mean, I’m not very creative.”

  “What if we mess up?” asked Markie.

  “There are no scrapbooking police. No one is going to come to your door in the middle of the night and arrest you because you didn’t make your pages a certain way,” I said. “There is no right way to scrapbook! This is playtime for grownups. You decide what you want on your pages, and what you want your family to remember. Keep in mind, it’s only paper. You goof it up—pish—you buy another sheet. Your mistake won’t break the bank.”

  I studied the well-heeled ladies and corrected myself. Any mistakes they made wouldn’t break their banks. Unfortunately, a lot of mistakes would leave me flat broke.

  Oh, well. I continued, “In our one-on-one time, I can help you develop your own personal style.” I didn’t add I could also steer our conversation to their pal Roxanne when we were alone.

  Markie was back to worrying about choices. “But how do you know what products to use? Which papers?”

  “There’s a universe of colors and patterns that could work with any photo. There’s also a universe of design styles. Within those universes are your preferences, choices that reflect your unique self.”

  They still seemed concerned.

  “I have homework for you.” I handed each woman a sheet of questions I’d devised to get them thinking about their color and style preferences. I also handed over a sheet of sentence prompts to get going on their journaling, the written commentary vitally important to memory albums.