“It would. Thanks, Wally. Have a good afternoon.”
Al turned at the town’s one stop sign. With such a wide Main Street, a stop sign seemed unnecessary, but the city council approved it last year. Richard Folkers pushed for one—always some new expenditure to raise taxes.
Across the street, a familiar female figure marched toward the grocery store. Henrietta. Al ducked under an awning until she stepped inside. Saved again.
A brilliant idea dawned on him. Right now, while she shopped, he could quick slip the rest of the pie into another container, wash the pan, and hurry to her back door with it and her other box. That way, he could avoid getting embroiled in one of her long conversations about nothing.
By gum, he’d do it. He struck his fist against his hip and loped around the corner toward home. Fifteen minutes later, his evil deed accomplished, he made himself a sandwich—cold fish and Colby cheese. Delbert didn’t care how long he took at noontime—he volunteered his time, anyhow.
He pulled out a chair and ran his fingers over the combination salt and pepper shaker Nan had bought when they took the boys to the Ozarks. She’d been so excited about its compact design, and the boys agreed it made a perfect keepsake from their trip.
Seemed like forever ago. He always wanted to take them out west, too, but things hadn’t worked out. At least Delbert started buying the store before Nan died, and Charlie was established on his father-in-law’s farm down in southwest Iowa by then, too.
He glanced over at Dottie’s place. Maybe he’d take advantage of the sunny day, in spite of the cold, and see if he could do anything around her yard.
He didn’t want to push her or make her think he was trying to take over, but she worked so hard. He watched her tired progress past his house late in the afternoon. Most days, she looked barely able to take another step.
That Helene, he ought to tell her a thing or two, making a woman Dottie’s age work like that. But Dot would never complain. Oh, no. She was quite the trooper.
****
Silence reigned in the boarding house, except for continual drivel from the dining room radio. Every time Helene switched it off, within minutes, Bonnie Mae turned it back on. At times, Dottie could have sworn she cracked her gum in time with the music.
That wasn’t so bad, but songs she and Owen used to dance to over at the Heston Dance Hall made her sad. She’d opt for the quiet of the old house any day, accompanied by bird songs from the open windows three seasons of the year.
Winter had borne down on Sternville the twenty-eighth of October. Only sparrows and a few raucous blue jays braved the cold, and once in a while, a brilliant cardinal. Dottie found herself wondering what possessed the Creator to fashion such a flashy bird, a splash of bright paint on a sullen landscape.
She cut some fresh rendered lard, with its soft, almost-rancid odor, into four cups of flour for piecrust. George had a birthday today, and she’d told him she’d make whatever he wanted for dessert. He’d dropped his eyes, and she had to coax out a reply. Cherry pie it was.
As if answering a personal invitation, flaming red wings flapped against the window. The chirping visitor puffed his feathers. He reminded Dottie of Bonnie Mae. After all, God made her, too, regardless of how Helene stormed about her birth. The girl definitely had a flashy exterior, but so did cardinals. What was so wrong with that?
Deep in her heart, Dottie still held a tiny grudge at Bonnie Mae for taunting Cora. It was harder to forgive wrongs done to your child than to yourself. But when Cora came back from California for Owen’s funeral, she and Dennis also attended the all-high school reunion, and she’d had a good talk with Bonnie Mae.
“Mom, I can’t believe she married a rich man from Chicago.” Cora made no mention of the past, and that was a good thing.
That was the first time Dottie met Dennis. Seemed strange, after he and Cora had been married for a year, but that was the way of war. They’d met when he sailed out of San Diego, and Cora worked in a munitions plant.
One of her letters noted a dreamy sailor fellow. The next one described how he’d asked her out to the USO dance. A few letters later, their baby girl had married that sailor, and after the war, he found a carpentry job right there on the coast.
Too bad Owen never got to meet Dennis, but by the time she took her son-in-law and Cora to the train for the trip back west after Owen’s funeral, Dottie was satisfied. Dennis seemed honest, hardworking, and devoted to Cora, the qualities she wanted in a son-in-law.
Now Jeffy, their oldest, would be three years old in February, and the baby, Joy, turned seven months yesterday. It didn’t seem right to be missing out on them growing up, but how could she ever get to California?
She sprinkled a quart of canned cherries with a cup and a half of sugar, stirred in a half cup of flour, and spread the mixture over the bottom crust. She could understand George’s choice. She might pick cherry pie too, if somebody asked her favorite, although Henrietta’s raspberry had melted in her mouth the other night.
Clunk, clunk, clunk—that was Bonnie Mae stirring the wash in the rinse water downstairs. Her feistiness had mellowed some as she accepted Helene’s way of doing things. Too bad she and that Milt hadn’t had children—what would it be like to be Bonnie’s age and have only her stepdad and an older sister? Especially when that sister was Helene, her only other living blood relative—Dottie shook her head. Hard luck.
Almost against her will, her heart went out to the girl. For all her brash pronouncements and irritating ways, underneath, she seemed…what was it? Lonely? Dottie pinched the piecrust edges and slit the top with a sharp paring knife. Yes, she decided. Lonely. Too bad Bonnie Mae couldn’t find some decent man around here and marry again.
Bonnie Mae clumped up the stairs, a huge basket of towels and sheets in her hands. She dropped the load on the table and started folding.
“What kind is that pie?”
“Cherry.”
“Ooh. You don’t think Helene would let me have a piece, do you?”
Dottie raised her eyebrows. Bonnie Mae knew better than that. Why did she even ask? Helene kept a sharp eye on her, caught her more than once with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and docked her wages. She did the same thing with towels ruined in the wringer. They had to wrench them to pieces to remove them, and Helene charged her each time.
“What do you think?”
“She wouldn’t even consider it.”
Dottie turned her attention to the second pie. At least the girl had learned to crimp her unsuitable language since she’d started work. “If you have a minute, I can show you how to make a pie.”
“Me? I can’t cook.”
“Anybody can learn.”
Red eyebrows scrunched in a dubious slant, but before long, Bonnie Mae rolled out a crust. It wasn’t half bad.
“Now, you fold it in half—be gentle, mind you—and place it in the pan. Come over here to the stove, and I’ll show you how to make the filling.”
“Helene must have extra guests tonight?”
“Yes. Somebody’s rented number six.”
“So—do they ever leave you a tip?”
Dottie guessed they did, but Helene always snatched the coins up quicker than a lightning flash in a sudden summer storm. And when overnight customers vacated a room, she appeared out of nowhere to make a first pass through.
“Well, do they?”
Dottie pressed her lips together. This conversation couldn’t lead anywhere good. “Does it matter to you?”
“Sure does. When I clean number six or seven, people sometimes leave as much as a quarter, but Helene says that’s for her. Don’t that seem odd to you? People pay her at the counter for their night’s stay, but they intend tips for the maid, don’t you think?”
Dottie agreed, yet hesitated to say so. Nothing positive could come from getting between Helene and her baby sister. But the girl wasn’t about to let it go.
“Don’t you think that’s true?”
“It soun
ds likely.”
“Likely?” Bonnie Mae’s voice rose. “’Course it’s true, and you know it. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell Helene anything you say. But we ought to stand together, you and me. You work hard all day long making supper, and if the guests want to say thanks with a little gift, that’s only natural.”
The younger woman put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you think you deserve it?”
Dottie pondered. Did she? The boarding house belonged to Helene, along with all its headaches. If a light bulb went out, she had to buy its replacement. If the front steps needed fixed, Helene paid the bill.
“All these years, you’ve cleaned bathrooms, hauled stuff up and down the stairs, made beds…if people left tips in their rooms, they meant them for you. Helene has no right to them.”
Dottie perused the long line of meals she’d made, with a parade of people leaving a few coins beside their plates—maybe a nickel or dime, but once in a while a quarter, or even more rarely, fifty cents. That one gentleman from—where was it—Detroit?
He’d dressed so fine and displayed such perfect manners. He looked her in the eyes after a pot roast meal and told her thank you, that he hadn’t eaten such a tasty beef dinner for years. Then he placed two shiny quarters beside his plate. He left another quarter on the bedside table, but Helene swooped it up. Seventy-five cents—why, that was a lot of money.
Bonnie Mae might be right. How much more could she have saved over the past few years with all the tips intended for her? Enough to pay for half a round-trip train ticket to California, maybe.
“You think she does?”
“Does what?”
“Oh, you are so frustrating. Urrggh!” Bonnie Mae twirled her ponytail. “Do you think Helene has any right to your tips or to mine?”
Dottie took a deep breath. During adult Sunday school class last week, someone talked about forming opinions and standing by them. People not speaking their minds led to the war’s terrible destruction, so we’d better learn a lesson from that.
As if coming out of a daze, Dottie turned toward Bonnie Mae, who flapped a sheet in the air to clear the wrinkles. Clear emerald eyes flashed, daring her to express her belief. Cora’s dark eyes transfused with Bonnie Mae’s for a second, and Dottie heard her younger daughter’s excited voice when she landed her first job. She must’ve been all of fourteen.
“Mom, guess what? Barb hired me down at the café. Some girls make as much as a dollar a day in tips!”
Dottie opened the oven door to check on the pie. She shut the door, blinked at Bonnie Mae, let out a long breath and found her voice. “I guess not. No. Rightfully, I would say she doesn’t.”
****
Al shot out his front door when he saw Dottie coming down the street in spite of a miserable sleet and ice shower. “Got something new to share with you—want to come over in half an hour?”
“Oh, Al. Thanks, but I’m so tired tonight, I can’t leave the house.”
Before he thought it through, he blurted out, “That’s all right. I’ll bring it over. Maybe in about an hour?”
His eyes, more blue than gray today, shone so sincere as he fell in step, Dottie couldn’t turn him down. Really, though, she longed to drop in her armchair and put her feet up.
“Okay, but I’m warning you, I’m worn out. By the way, you’re getting soaked.”
“So are you.” He grinned and held her door open for her. “I don’t mind. What I’m bringing over will put a spring in your step. Don’t do a thing for supper. Promise?”
Not a hard promise to make. He shut the door behind her. She pulled off her boots and draped her coat and scarf over a dining room chair. A steady drip fell on the floor, but she turned up the heat and collapsed in her armchair. It was all she could do to pull up the ottoman for her feet.
The talk with Bonnie Mae about tips had only foretold the day’s stresses. George suffered what looked to be a heart attack. Bonnie Mae found him on the floor of his room and came flying down the back stairs.
“Call Doc Schulz, quick. It’s George. He can’t even answer me.”
Dottie dialed Hilda at the telephone exchange. “We need Doc over at the boarding house, quick.”
“Dottie, is that you?”
“Yes, but I can’t talk. Get Doc over here as soon as you can.”
“But…”
“No buts—just do it!” Dottie hung up, shaking. She’d raised her voice considerably, something she almost never did. She grabbed a cold cloth and shadowed Bonnie May up the stairs. George’s eyelids fluttered when he heard her speak. She placed her palm on his forehead, realizing her utter helplessness.
Close enough to his ear to see hairs and dry wax flakes, she whispered. “Hang on, George. I’ll stay right here with you.”
Bonnie Mae’s eyes went wild. Dottie recognized unfettered fear—the girl needed to get away.
“Go downstairs to watch for Doc and let him in, would you please?”
Thankfully, Hilda got the message across, because in a few minutes, two men with a stretcher followed Bonnie Mae and Doc up the stairs. Dottie moved out of the way and fidgeted with her apron as Doc knelt on the floor beside George.
When he finished his examination, he directed the men to carry George to the ambulance. Dottie ran to the bed for some warm wool blankets.
“You want these on him, don’t you? It’s freezing out there.”
“Yeah. Glad you found him as soon as you did. My guess is his old ticker’s acting up. Don’t know what we can do, but I’ll sure try everything I know. Does he have any next of kin?”
Dottie ransacked her brain. “I’ve never heard him mention anyone, but maybe Helene has. I’ll ask her when she gets back.”
“Um.” Doc folded his arms over his chest and headed down the stairs. “Thanks.”
Dottie gathered up the scatter rug where George had fallen. Signs of drool showed toward one end. She folded it in thirds and carried it downstairs to the top of the basement steps. One kick landed it smack in the middle of the landing. Since Bonnie Mae washed all the linens now, she hadn’t practiced that kick for some time, and it released her emotions.
“Help George, Lord. Such a shy, gentle man—please spare his life.”
On his birthday, no one had been able to prod his age out of him, and it was only because Helene kept her records that they even knew the day. She wished Helene would hurry back from whatever she was doing—probably shopping. Surely, she would have some information about George’s family.
If she didn’t, how depressing. What would it be like to live like that, without any family connections? Even though Cora lived so far away, Dottie had Millie and Ren in Cedar Rapids, where they’d moved in ’40 to work at Collins Radio. They were so busy, with work and their three children leaving the nest, she didn’t see them often. But at least they lived only two hours away.
She went back to her supper preparations, her thoughts far from her work. She made a big macaroni and cheese casserole—George didn’t relish the dish, so he wouldn’t miss one of his favorites. She got out two jars of green beans, keeping an ear open for the side door’s squeak, announcing Helene’s return.
Finally, with supper in the oven, the table set, the floor swept and mopped, Helene appeared, arms full of packages, her coat wet from the icy drizzle that had blanketed Sternville all afternoon. Dottie helped her out of her coat and told her the news.
“Doc took George to the hospital, thought it might be a heart attack.”
“How did…”
“He fell upstairs. Bonnie Mae found him.”
“And you called for Doc?” Helene whisked off her plastic rain scarf, revealing a pinkish tone to her hair.
“Yes, right away.”
“Hmm…I wonder if that was necessary.”
“What?”
“I mean, he’s an old man, don’t you know? What could they possibly do for him? We might have just put him to bed and watched him.”
“Who would have watched him?”
> “Why, we could all have taken turns.”
Dottie had no idea how to answer, so she changed the subject. “Doc wanted names of George’s next of kin. Do you have a list?”
“Why, no. George has no family left.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. His only sister died a few years back, leaving no children, and George never married. He came here from Missouri before the war. Worked on farms all over the county over the years, followed the wheat harvest to the Dakotas, but had no one to call his own.”
Dottie’s heart sank. A sudden awareness of how much her feet ached fell over her like a pall.
“Should we call the hospital to see how he’s coming along?”
“Make a long distance call?” Helene’s chins trembled. “I should say not!
“But…don’t you want to know if he’s all right?”
“In the morning. We’ll give Doc Schulz a call at his office. That’s plenty soon enough—no use wasting money on long distance.” Helene patted her new hair-do and pulled some canned goods from a grocery sack.
Something dark and sinister engulfed Dottie’s throat. Words teletyped into her mind like war messages. Helene didn’t care one bit about George, except for his rent money. To her, he was just another bundle of cash every month.
Rain spattered against the kitchen window. Helene pulled more things out of her parcels and held up a bright red sweater.
“You think this goes well with my hair color?”
Yesterday, she came home with pink hair—pink and red together, a startling array. The clock relayed a steadiness Dottie needed right now. Her own words surprised her as much as the shock reflected on Helene’s made-up face.
“I need to leave a little early tonight, since we don’t have any guests.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
Dottie had never made such a request—she wasn’t even sure of its origins. “Uh, yes, if you don’t mind. Bonnie Mae is still here, so maybe she can help clean up.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier, Dorothy?”
“You’ve been gone all day. How could I?”
In This Together Page 5
