“Oh, those little cuties.” The photograph of baby Joy in Jeffy’s arms captured her, and she barely noticed Al letting himself in again. He tromped downstairs, so she put the letter aside to savor the details later.
Banging and shuffling came from the basement. Her cake plate sat on the counter—might as well cut Al some, too. By the time she positioned another plate and cup of hot chocolate at the table, he emerged, cobwebs strung ear to ear, the unrecognizable dusty filter in hand. His brows arched at the late night snack.
“Smells good. Chilly down there tonight.” On his way to the sink to wash up, his knee brushed her dress when he handed her the filter.
Condensed dust prickled her nose as Dottie set it in her frigid back porch. A brutal wind blustered through cracked caulking and frosty air swirled up her legs. She slammed the door, wiped off her fingers, and nudged her natural wave behind her ears. In doing so, she touched her cheek, surprised at its warmth.
Chapter Two
White steam rose over Dottie’s face every time she exhaled. She forced herself out of bed and scuttled in her moccasins across brittle floorboards to turn up the heat—mustn’t let the pipes freeze.
Setting the dial at sixty-six degrees, she gave Owen a mental hug for replacing their old coal furnace before he crossed the great divide. Harsh wind rattled an eave spout, shuttering a draft down her spine. With his robust constitution, she always thought Owen would outlive her—what else had she been wrong about?
Baggy eyes met her in the mirror. Last night, sleep came only after a struggle. She reached for her stiff white cotton stockings, straggling over the towel bar like icicles.
“Be thankful for your job. Gets you out of the house.”
Owen would never have agreed to her working, and back then, it wouldn’t have crossed her mind, either. But a few weeks after his funeral, Helene mentioned she needed help in the boarding house kitchen. The fit seemed perfect, and now, two years had gone by.
“Wonder what she’d do if I showed up in pants?” Dottie chuckled at the thought. Some women had taken to wearing long pants in winter, but Helene balked. “I run a proper boarding house, mind you, Dorothy Kyle. What if one of the men happened on you bent over cleaning the stairs or taking something out of the oven?”
The four boarders, long past the age of noticing her backside, would have a less dangerous view if she wore pants, Dottie thought. But she swallowed her protest. She didn’t mind the dress rule, yet hated being called by her given name. She even drummed up the courage to mention it once, to no avail.
A cup of steaming tea and a fried egg tucked between two pieces of toast warmed her. Her wool scarf’s fringe tracing her cheeks, she turned the thermostat down ten degrees. The house would be glacial tonight, but at least she wouldn’t have to go into that musty dungeon to stoke the fire.
At the end of her sidewalk, she turned north. A light shone from Al’s kitchen window, and the living room drapes parted as she walked by. A wave of sympathy swept her. He still hadn’t gotten used to Nan being gone, but some wounds, only time and love could heal.
Twenty minutes later, Dottie led Bonnie Mae into the pantry, a converted back porch. Helene had painted the door shut and lined the walls with shelves. In spring and fall the space served as a cooler, and in winter, an extra freezer.
“In here you’ll find most of our meal supplies.”
“Our meals? You eat here?”
“Sometimes, if I’m really hungry.” Dottie faced narrowed cat’s eyes.
The girl’s tone took on a brittle edge. “I have to pay Helene a quarter per meal. That’s no fair.” Dottie almost expected her to stomp her foot.
“That’s what I have to pay, too.”
“Oh.” Full red lips slid into a sulk.
“We store everything but the dry goods in here.”
“I’m not cooking, not on your life. Helene hired me strictly for cleaning and errand-running.”
A relieved sigh escaped, in spite of Dottie’s early morning vow to avoid any show of emotion. So, at least Miss Smart Mouth wouldn’t hover around the kitchen.
“On this side, you’ll find things we serve to outside dinner guests.” Dottie gestured toward boxes of tea, tins of salmon, and preserves.
“You mean she don’t give the boarders jam?”
“Not this jam. It’s Maudy Akins’ finest—a bit too pricey.”
“What do you mean?”
Dottie lifted her palm. “That’s what Helene says, and she’s the boss.” She tried to herd Bonnie Mae toward the entrance, but the gum-popping apprentice wouldn’t budge.
“So she treats the boarders like second-class citizens?”
Dottie bit her tongue. She didn’t agree with everything Helene did, but if you worked for someone, you didn’t ask questions. She almost retorted, “Did you learn that fancy language in Chicago?”
But just in time, she bit her tongue. Backed into the small room, her chest filled as though it might explode—she had to get out of here. She met pursed lips and squinty eyes until the younger woman finally backed out of the narrow space. Dottie let out a shaky breath, wrapped up the tour as quickly as possible, and deposited Bonnie Mae beside the wringer washer.
“Guess you’ve run one of these before?”
Wrinkles redesigned a freckled nose. “Unfortunately, yes. I can’t believe Helene hasn’t invested in a newer model with an automatic rotator. This takes forever, and the stirring breaks your back.”
“But the clothes come out clean, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but women shouldn’t have to do this kind of hard labor anymore, if you ask me.” Intense green eyes sparked.
Dottie averted her face from the girl’s fiery stare. She could say, “I didn’t ask you,” but there was no use tackling that one—no use at all.
****
A golden Indian summer day surprised rural Iowa after the past week’s cold rain. Dottie trimmed her bushes and cleaned up the last garden remnants. About half an hour into her work, she came upon a wooly bear caterpillar.
On two fingers, she lifted the little fellow clinging to his leaf. “I’d better count your stripes.” Black bands numbered more than brown on either side of the fuzzy creature’s rusty orange middle. “This winter’s going to be a bad one.”
She settled the caterpillar under the garage window and surveyed her hydrangeas. Mrs. Grundy cut hers in the fall, but Dottie’s oldest sister Mildred, who raised her after Mama died, swore springtime was best.
She glanced through the alley toward her elderly back-alley neighbor’s house. Sure enough, her hydrangea bushes had shrunk into stubs. “That grandson of hers has no mercy. Could’ve left at least six inches. Ah well, to each his own.”
Once spring came, one could tell the difference in their pruning techniques, since the plants grew equally tall and bushy. But maybe Mrs. Grundy’s produced more flowers—Dottie had never checked, and she wasn’t about to.
“Fiddle-faddle. It’s all in what your folks taught you.”
“What was that?”
Dottie’s clippers flew into the air as she jumped half a foot. “Al Jensen—don’t sneak up on me like that—you’ll be the death of me some day.”
Al chuckled and picked up her clippers. “I doubt that. A stairway somewhere will do you in—probably over at the boarding house.”
No tart response came to mind, so she grabbed the clippers and clacked them back and forth. “Cleaning your garden, too?”
“Sure am. But I thought I heard you say something about a caterpillar.”
Had she muttered her thoughts loud enough for him to hear over in his garden? Dottie scratched her head. Didn’t most men lose their hearing with age?
Al stood there, skinny arms akimbo. “Well, did you?”
Dottie gestured toward the window. “Yes. Such a cute little guy, but he’s got ten black stripes. Bad sign for a cold, cold winter.”
“You’re right. Weather vane’s been swinging east pretty regular for the pas
t week, too.”
Dottie slanted her head toward the vane atop his shed. “How does that one go again?”
“A weather vane that swings to the west proclaims the weather to be best. A weather vane that swings to the east proclaims no good to man or beast.” He puffed out his chest like a schoolboy reciting for his teacher.
“Well. Let me know if you see any more sure signs, all right?”
Al’s grin spread from jawbone to jawbone. Of course, with such a slender face, it had little space to cover. “Sure.”
Dottie went back to her work, and Al headed across the yard. But not a full minute passed before she heard his voice again.
“Your garden always looks so neat and tidy, Dot. Even in winter.”
That sounded like a compliment, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it. After scanning Al’s spaded growing space, she straightened. “Yours, too.”
Now, that wasn’t exactly true. He left too much to chance with his raspberry patch. He ought to clip them down some. She bent over her day lilies. About eight inches from the ground, according to Mama. She enveloped a few greenish-yellow leaves with her clippers.
Crunch—leaf shards fell around her feet. Twenty minutes later, four lilies stood short and sassy, dressed for winter. Because she paid attention to her cutting angle, the foliage even looked pretty now. Orderly and…yes, pretty. She stood back to admire her work.
“Dottie?” Her knee jerked when she leaped in the air again.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Long fingers grasped her elbow. “You all right?”
“You’ve got to stop this, Al. I just wrenched my knee.”
“Oh, man.” Something dark wavered through his eyes. For an uneasy second, Dottie feared he might try to rub the hurt away. But he gained control, working his mouth like a horse with an uncomfortable bit.
“What I wanted to say was…I mean…” He closed his eyes, pulled his shoulders back, and spit it out. “Want to go fishing?”
“Fishing?”
“Out at Goplerud’s pond. They say the fish are biting out there.”
“Why, it’s been such a long time since I’ve…”
“That’s all right. I’ll bring everything, even pack us a little supper.” He reddened. “We ought to wait ’til about five-thirty, when the fish get hungry. And since that’s about supper time, I thought…” Pucker lines zigzagged his forehead.
“You and Owen had some good times down at that pond.” She stared at the back fence. “While you were gone, Nan and I had some good chats, too.”
“Yeah. Too bad they both couldn’t have lived longer.”
Al shook a nearly comatose fly from his shirtsleeve. Dottie considered what it would be like down at the pond with him. Then her empty living room passed before her eyes—anything would be better than that.
“Well, I suppose…”
“I’ll get right on the provisions. Pick you up in the alley about half-past five.”
Dottie’s head spun as though someone slapped her out of a deep sleep. Going fishing with Al Jensen. Who would have thought it?
“Al?”
He turned on a dime. “What is it, Dot?”
“Just so you don’t expect me to take Owen’s place…”
“Nope, wouldn’t expect you to.”
She crimped a wayward hollyhock, stuck a spindly stick where she needed to dig dahlia bulbs, and cleaned her hoe blade before hanging it between two nails pounded into the garage wall.
Out in the sun again, she stretched her arms overhead. It was wonderful to do something you thoroughly enjoyed without having to hurry. What a perfect day—a thread of breeze wove through the back yard, sunshine warmed her, and a cardinal oozed good cheer from the telephone wire.
When the workmen first strung that wire a few years back, she’d resented the way the post marred her view. Now, she hardly noticed. Reluctant to leave the garden’s gentle spell, she wandered to the asparagus bed and pulled a wayward weed. Nothing as calming as getting your fingers in the dirt.
Fishing was close to the earth, too. She’d not made time for fishing since…she thought back. Maybe when Cora was a little girl.
Unlike Millie, with no affinity for slimy things, Cora took to fishing right away, snaring the worm and doubling its wriggly body like a professional. Bill did, too. Dottie’s chest throbbed as she turned toward the back steps.
Her sigh hung above the flame bush, with its rosy-red profusion of leaves. That’s how she’d come to think of Bill, beautiful and bright. Sometimes a good memory came to light, and she’d catch herself smiling right in the middle of mixing a piecrust.
For a moment, he became a little boy again, running to her with a treasure. She still kept a box of those things, way back in her top bureau drawer.
That friendly cardinal intoned his song again. Dottie gave him a wave. She’d better get ready. Al’s invitation troubled her, though she didn’t know why. Maybe it was that change kept coming, and she had no choice but to let it do its work.
She turned toward the porch. Al’s clapboard siding reflected sunlight across an expanse of rich grass, still verdant this late in the season. She still had time to run over and make up some excuse. But her heart felt lighter than it had in days. Maybe an outing wouldn’t hurt.
****
Al puttered around for a good long while, ’til he got antsy. He gathered the poles, filled a can with some pudgy worms, and stuck everything in the back of his 1937 Ford truck.
He patted the old girl on the fender. “Ten years and still hummin’ like a youngster.”
He took off his boots and went inside stocking-footed—ooh, his feet stank. Better wash them and put on new socks. What would Nan say, changing socks part way through the day?
But she passed a little over a year ago. Some days when he closed the hardware store, he stopped in at Benson’s Market, where old Tibbs lounged near a pot-bellied stove. Never one to refuse socializing while his daughter-in-law worked, Tibbs repeated stories to anyone with ears.
Though Al wearied of the same old tales, listening made more sense than coming home to memories in every corner. By the time he filled the truck with gas, if it needed any, and drove home the long way around, the evening loomed less stark.
He ransacked the cupboards and Frigidaire, and was about to pull out the remains of a bologna ring he’d boiled last night when the phone jangled. Three shorts and a long.
“Hi Dad, how ya doin’?”
“Good. Fine. You?” His son Charlie, in the southwest corner of Iowa, checked on him every now and then.
“Got the garden all cleaned out?”
“Yeah. Beautiful day, eh?”
“It is. Got the kids out putting the storm windows on. Supposed to hard freeze in northern Iowa Monday night.”
Al pictured Charlie’s three children out in the fresh air.
“Any more news up there, Dad?
“Uh, the Ingersoll girl’s moved back in with Ned.”
“Bonnie Mae? You don’t say. Don’t know if that’s good news or bad.”
Al’s memory danced a jig. Something about Charlie’s wife Marion getting in a row with that wild-eyed Bonnie Mae years ago, in high school.
“All right then, Dad. Come out and see us sometime. We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Maybe I will.” They talked a while longer before Al set the receiver in its cradle. Maybe he could take the train down there sometime. If Nan were still alive, they’d go several times a year, but the thought of going alone weighed him down.
He turned back to the Frigidaire. What had he been doing? Oh, yes, the bologna. He cut some chunks and layered them with rich gold longhorn cheese between thick slices of rye bread.
He placed a few of Henrietta Perry’s cookies in a brown paper bag. Though she had ten years on him, she never gave up trying, and made great raisin oatmeal cookies—not as good as Nan’s, but close. He took them to the store with him for lunch, but luckily counted four still in t
he bottom of the box.
The kitchen clock alerted him—time to pick up Dottie. Feet planted in the middle of the pale green linoleum floor, Al bowed his head for a few seconds.
“If only Dottie could like me—she wouldn’t have to love me the way Nan did—but if we could be more than neighbors…”
A niggle of doubt rendered his “Amen” lame—probably an old fool to even dream Dottie would consider him. He donned his lopsided khaki fishing hat, stained and fingerprinted, swung the grocery bag to his hip, and let himself out the back porch door.
Chapter Three
Porky’s Pond, named after its owner’s rotund silhouette, lay toward Maple River. Trees extended from the body of water half a mile south, creating an elongated U-shape. Al accelerated down the hill.
A cursory scan encouraged him—not another human being in sight. He turned to Dottie. “We’re in luck—best fishing hole in the county all to ourselves.”
She seemed a little quieter than usual, but one thing he could count on, she wouldn’t scare the fish away. He veered into the woods on a seldom-used lane with tire-high weeds down the middle and cut the engine.
“You hungry yet?”
“A little. I don’t think it’ll take long to work up an appetite.”
“Okay. We’ll take the food with us. Just let me know when you’re ready to eat.”
“You’ll hear my stomach.” Dottie’s easy grin reassured him everything would be all right.
She grabbed the fishing poles and bait can. He maneuvered the grocery sack, his tackle box, and two canvas-covered stools.
“I’ll come back for the water and pail while you get set up, Al.”
“Good. Thanks.” His voice sounded jittery. He had to relax. He mustn’t let his nerves take over—then she would decline another invitation.
He set up his stool, opened the tackle box and surveyed his options. By the time he picked a lure and baited his hook, Dottie studied the murky water.
In This Together Page 2
