“Now, you wouldn’t want to do anything rash, Helene. You have to admit, she’s learned her job well, and her work makes a big difference around here.”
“If I had to pay her myself, it’d be different. I would fire her in an instant. As it is, I just cut into her inheritance. The man she calls her stepfather certainly won’t provide for her.”
“Calls her stepfather?”
“Mama died when Bonnie Mae was ten. Felicity came back to town a few months before that. Brought this man named Ned back with her—don’t know if they ever married or not. Didn’t make much difference to her one way or the other.
“For some reason, he decided to stay on. And for some even stranger reason, he took to that flighty little redhead. He bought the house he still lives in, started working for the feed mill, and acted like he wanted to be regular people.”
Dottie folded a cup of sugar slowly into some beaten egg whites, gradually, cautiously—the secret of successful meringue. But her stomach jittered. Something about Helene’s description of Ned bothered her. What did she mean, regular people? Helene and Henrietta Perry seemed to think a lot alike.
Helene’s fingers trembled as she poured herself a cup of strong black coffee and sat down at the table. The beautician had gone a bit too far this morning, creating a greenish-blue sheen for her new hairstyle.
“That lasted about six months for my wild sister.” Helene spewed the word sister like spittle. “She couldn’t stand having a child around, for one thing, even her own child. But when she left, Ned stuck with it here. And he stuck with Bonnie Mae, too, until she lit out with that numbskull from Chicago. Like mother, like daughter.”
“Have you ever heard from Felicity?” Dottie leaned her bad knee against the old cupboard while she cranked the mixer into a frenzy through the meringue mixture.
“No. I asked Ned a while ago, and he had the same opinion. I wouldn’t be surprised if she died in a back alley somewhere.”
“So Bonnie Mae only spent six months of her life with her real mother? Does she know your mother wasn’t…?” The meringue stiffened so well, Dottie felt a surge of satisfaction.
“I told you—I don’t know what she knows, and I’m beyond caring. When Felicity’s birthing screams woke me in the night all those years ago, I vowed I’d never get myself into such a fix, and I surely haven’t. A couple of men tried, but I batted them away. No marriage for me, I vowed—not until all possibility of that happening was long past.”
Downstairs, the washer swished back and forth, back and forth, creating a vibration through the countertop. Helene drank her cup dry and drummed her sharp fingernails on the table. After coaxing the meringue into graceful, peaked snowdrifts over her warm lemon pudding, Dottie slipped the pie into the oven and refilled Helene’s cup.
“Felicity took in every scruffy tomcat that prowled around. Broke Mama and Daddy’s hearts, and I wanted no part of it. Through those early years, Mama sent Bonnie Mae along with her a couple of times, but our peace was short-lived. Felicity always brought her back, bawling and more selfish than ever. Now, wouldn’t you say it’s unfair that I’m stuck with the consequences of my sister’s sinful life?”
Dottie’s sympathies went out to both Helene and Bonnie Mae, but for different reasons. Helene couldn’t forget the past and embrace her last family connection, but it was sadder still for the younger woman. She only needed a fair chance.
Helene sputtered her next words. “I knew you wouldn’t voice an opinion, Dorothy. But it is unfair. It’s unjust! So maybe I’ll just forget about that vow I made to Mama. Maybe the next time that girl shoots off her mouth, I’ll tell her it’s over. Tell her to find herself a job wherever she can. I’ve taken all I’m going to take.”
Dottie opened the oven door a smidgen to peek at the pie, eased it shut, and in that moment when she removed herself from Helene’s tirade, she recalled who Bonnie Mae asked her about the other day: Tom Mosely, the coal man. And she’d mentioned that Tom attended the Presbyterian Church. She would bet all the pots and pans in this room that’s where Bonnie Mae went yesterday morning.
“Helene, how do you know Ned won’t provide anything for Bonnie Mae? Does he have other children?”
“He might—some men spawn kids all over the place like tadpoles, sometimes they don’t even know they’re theirs. I can’t tell for sure what he’ll do. But it would serve that smart mouth right to be cut out. She doesn’t deserve a darn thing from anyone. Spoiled rotten is what she is.”
Dottie filled her mixing bowl with warm water, thankful for the timer’s steady tick-tick-tick. The back of Helene’s head glowed with a peculiar aura, like a pre-dawn moon, and her flushed countenance revealed her unabated anger. But if her boss expected another comment from her, she’d have to be disappointed. What could she say, when Helene’s every other word dripped with self-pity?
Helene plopped her coffee cup down beside the sink and wandered off somewhere, but the force of her fury remained, like scum on a long-used pan. Helene let Bonnie Mae make her miserable—that was the truth of it. How did you go about helping someone get rid of such a hindrance to her own happiness? Dottie shot up a prayer for help.
Chapter Twelve
A cardinal lighted at the kitchen window for a few seconds, peering up at her as if seeking information. She touched his bright feathers through the glass and drank in the mellow aroma of lemon pudding filling the room. Interesting how you could lace sour lemon juice with sugar to create a pleasing taste and smell.
The timer went off, and Dottie pulled out the most perfectly browned meringue ever. She wished Al would stop in so she could show him.
She cleaned up the counter and started on the dishes, scanning the yard’s bare branches for that winged harbinger of cheer—no sign of his bright scarlet, but she did glimpse a man’s long overcoat and straw hat crossing the back yard. Eva. For her age, that woman had incredible energy—she never seemed to sit still. Poor Ily, having to wonder where her mother had gone every day, search her out, and apologize to people all the time.
Eva barreled straight for the other side of the yard as if she saw her prospector husband Helmut resurrected there, and he’d just struck gold. But when she arrived, she threw up her arms and walked away dejected toward the back door.
Dottie dried her hands and hurried down the stairs. She motioned for Eva to come, and pulled her in out of the weather.
“You’re freezing, honey. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Drank it black, Helmut did. So thick it sat in drops on his whiskers.”
“Come on in—warm up your hands. Didn’t you bring any gloves today?”
“Hawkers—that’s what they were. Heartless hawkers, them what stole the nuggets. But they paid—oh, they paid dearly.” Eva leaned against the door, wagging her head back and forth. “But I paid the biggest price. Oh, my.” She raised her eyes. “Forget your name, young lady, but I’d best be off, help the sheriff, now that’s a praisable thing.”
Before Dottie could gather her thoughts to cajole her to stay, she was gone, her shoulders jerking in their own private dance.
“Umm…must be awful to live like that, with your thoughts playing tricks on you all the time. At least Eva had her chance at adventure, though—that’s what Bonnie Mae says.” She pulled the door tight and went back to her dishwashing. “Too bad she couldn’t have stayed out in the mountains after Helmut died—too bad she can’t find any peace.”
She set her mind to her task, but Eva’s flighty form stayed with her. Her chance at adventure—yes, she had that, and her memories from those days of panning gold with Helmut. Most people called her crazy, but once in a while, she stopped long enough to let Dottie look into her eyes as they chatted, and a couple of times, her ramblings made sense.
Suds rose in the dishpan. Dottie tried to put Eva’s plight out of her mind—some things, you truly couldn’t make better. She washed the cups and glasses first, like Mildred taught her years ago. If she kept up with the dishes during the d
ay, they didn’t loom so overwhelming later on. One thing for sure—Helene would never come in and find her at loose ends.
****
Al manhandled a twenty-two pound turkey up the back steps into his porch, glad for the cold weather’s return, since his Frigidaire would never hold the massive bird. He hadn’t thought ahead about Thanksgiving, except to assume he’d go over to Delbert and Edie’s like always, but this morning, Del reported Edie and their youngest son down with a severe case of the flu.
Dottie’s kitchen light still shone, and the way its rays filtered across the grass between their houses gave Al an inspiration. Or maybe it was staring at the edible monster Frank O’Brien had handed him a few minutes ago.
He hadn’t recognized the old farm truck idling up the alley, but happened to be looking out his kitchen window at the time. He waited until the tires crunched on the bunched-up frozen snow and ice in his driveway. When big brown rattling fenders came abreast of his back steps, he ran out to see who would be paying him a visit this late in the evening.
Frank doffed his hat. “Thought this was your place. Had an abundance of turkeys this year—sold a passel of ’em, but this one needed to be butchered, too. So heavy she could hardly walk. The missus thought to bring her to you. After all, you was so faithful to bring us word from Anthony, over there.”
He gestured in the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean. Al hadn’t spoken much with Frank over the years, just a few times when he’d waited at the mailbox for a letter from their son, fighting in France and Belgium. But those chats bonded them. The same thing happened with several other folks along the route.
That was about the time Delbert bought the store. Owen took sick and asked Al if he wouldn’t take over the mail route for him ’til he recovered. And so it was that Al delivered the mail north of town until they found a suitable replacement.
“Why, thank you. I can’t imagine you’d think of me, Frank.”
“’Course we did. Maybe you don’t know how the missus watched for you those last days o’ the war. Stood at the window and waited for your truck every day…yep, every single day.” Frank pushed his tattered cap back. He could have launched into Anthony’s trials at the Battle of the Bulge, but drew his shoulders back instead.
“Cook the old bird up. If you’ve a mind, take some over t’ Owen’s widow. Sure sorry he had to go and die so young—best mailman our neck of the woods ever had.” Frank shifted his engine into reverse and backed away.
Now, Al patted the turkey, sitting in a big brown cardboard hardware box, and located a couple of clean, tattered towels to moisten and tuck around its bulging breast. Something pulled him to look behind him, out the window again. There stood Dottie on her porch. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but she still had on her work dress.
Why not run over and ask her what to do with the turkey? Maybe the boarding house could use it on Thursday. He grabbed for his coat, and an idea hit him that sent a surge of energy through his chest.
“Helene’s leaving, so I could help her prepare a mountain of a feast for George and the others. We could have an old fashioned Thanksgiving for them.” Al’s whisper wafted through the icy porch. He stood there another half minute, then made his decision.
He flew across the yard. By the time he mounted the steps, though, Dottie had turned off her light and shut the door to the kitchen. Through the window, he could see her near the stove, probably making a last cup of tea.
He stepped into the porch to the telephone’s jangle. Behind him, a gale raged. The weatherman predicted exactly that—amazing how fast storms pressed down from the northwest. Al counted the longs and shorts coming from the wall-mounted oak telephone. Yes, that was Dottie’s number.
He didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but a shiver took him. Probably Hilda down at the exchange, lonely for someone to talk with. It didn’t make any sense to go back home now.
“Why, Cora, it’s you!”
Dottie’s voice pulsed. Torn between paying attention and putting his hands over his ears, Al wavered at the door.
“I’m so glad you called back again. Maybe we’ll have a better connection this time.” Silence for a few seconds.
“You’re what? Oh, Cora—so soon?
“Five months already? And you’ve been sick—but you had such an easy time with the other two. I wonder what—
“Have I what? I’m sorry, it’s so hard to hear with this crackling on the line. Must be bad weather between here and there.
“What? The Rocky Mountains…mmmhmm. Yes, I have thought about the train. I just don’t see how—” Dottie’s end became unearthly quiet. Her frame bent over the receiver. He wanted to rush into the kitchen and put his arm around her shoulders.
“You what? But sweetie, I’m not sure at all…” Dismay entered her voice.
“Hello? Cora, are you still there? Oh this confounded telephone—the lines must have crossed or something.”
A loud click led to a screech as Dottie drew a chair across the floor. Al glanced toward the table where she held her head in her hands over a cup of tea. He stomped his feet a couple of times and knocked on the door.
Her face curved toward him. Did her eyes show delight or irritation? Most of the time he could read Dot, he thought, but from the looks of her pained expression, things might be more complicated tonight.
She rushed to open the door. “Al—am I ever glad to see you. How did you know I needed you right now? Sit down, please.”
She poured a cup of tea for him, but the sensation that filled him at her words warmed him deeper than any steaming drink.
****
“Bonnie Mae, I have some special work for you this afternoon. I know I’m not your boss, but this job is made for you.”
“Made for me? Right…” Bonnie Mae dragged out the “i,” bringing her hand from her mop to the table.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“Um…so far, anyway.”
“All right. I appreciate how you’ve helped me in the kitchen this morning. With Thanksgiving tomorrow, and Helene going off to Minneapolis, I’m going to share a secret with you. Al Jensen came into a twenty-pound turkey, and we’re going to make the stuffing later this afternoon.”
“Do we get to eat some?”
“Absolutely—as much as you want, tomorrow at dinnertime. It’s for all of us—the boarders, you, me, Al, and whoever else you might want to invite.”
“You mean it?”
“I do. And that leads me to the job I have in mind for you. About four o’clock, we expect a special coal delivery, since we’ve used up almost a whole load already this month. I have a lot more baking to do, but someone needs to watch for the truck and open the hopper. I’ll be busy rolling out biscuits for supper about that time.”
Bonnie Mae arched a brow. “That’s the job?”
Dottie nodded. “And while you’re waiting, I want you to help with the pies. Think you can handle that?”
The younger woman grinned. “Start teaching.”
“First, I have a list of errands—fetching from the larder, the pantry, the fruit cellar.” Dottie handed her a scrap of paper, “Oh, and by the way—please don’t mention our Thanksgiving feast to Helene, if she should happen to stop in before she leaves.
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Under no condition, sister.” She whacked Dottie’s shoulder and bounded away.
“That girl’s going to be all right. I hope she invites Tom Mosely and his children over for tomorrow.” Dottie creaked the old cupboard door wide. With Helene on her way out of town, she could almost feel her heart expand.
“I hope they fall in love.” She raised her voice again. “I really hope they do.”
Ingredients for yeast rolls, pumpkin and apple pie covered the kitchen. When Bonnie Mae returned with an armload of containers, Dottie busied her peeling and slicing apples.
“Keep a sharp eye on the pumpkin in the oven. Poke it with a fork in about twenty minutes. When the peeling’s soft, take it out and scr
ape the insides through the sieve, into my biggest mixing bowl. Use this potato masher to work it down as smooth as you can.”
She stirred up a batch of yeast dough and kneaded it. About that time, clanking sounded from out in the back yard. Bonnie Mae slammed her bowl of peelings on the table, her eyes blazing. “Be right back.”
From her vantage point, Dottie thought Mr. Mosely’s hat leaned awfully close to that bushy red hair. Bonnie ran back inside and down the basement stairs. Scraping ensued as she opened the hopper, and then her feet thumped up the stairs and back outside. Long after the coal lay safely in the basement, she and Tom lingered beside the truck.
Dottie set the dough to rise and rolled out a triple batch of pastry. In a big bowl, she mixed eggs, milk, sugar and spices to add to the pumpkin once it cooled. Afternoon light weakened. Still, Bonnie Mae and Tom talked.
Finally, Bonnie Mae charged through the back door. “You’re sure you don’t mind if Tom and his children come over tomorrow?”
“Don’t mind at all. In fact, I sure hope they do. We could use some young people to spice things up around here.”
The smile on the girl’s face was worth all the effort Dottie made this afternoon—all she would do this evening and in the morning, too. When Bonnie Mae dashed back in, her cheeks glowed.
“He’s coming! They’re all coming.” She whirled Dottie around the kitchen.
“All right. We’ll have enough folks for a real feast! Finish up those apples now, and mix in a cup of sugar and one-fourth cup of flour before you put them into the crust. Oh, and a sprinkling of cinnamon.”
Bonnie Mae’s step contained a new bustle, but for once, she kept her thoughts to herself. Dottie respected that.
With the apple pies in the oven, Bonnie Mae set the table for tomorrow, as special as she could make it. The whistling that came from the dining room left no doubt about her excitement.
Describing the afternoon to Al when he slipped into the kitchen gave Dottie great enjoyment. It was almost as if her own family were coming home for the holiday.
In This Together Page 11
