~ ~ ~
After the bedroom she had shared with Big Jim was cleaned and polished, Ida ran a second ad in the Chronicle. By week’s end she had rented the room to Wilbur Washington, a retired lawyer with silver hair and a soft-spoken manner. He moved into the master bedroom with a single suitcase, a shopping bag filled with books, and a grey cat named Miss Abby.
On the first evening of Wilbur’s residence, Ida was about to set a bowl of string beans on the table when she caught the image of his face from the corner of her eye. For a fleeting moment she could see Big Jim sitting there. It wasn’t so much Wilbur’s features but something in his mannerisms, the gentle tone of his voice, even the way he would stretch out a long arm and fetch the salt shaker for Laricka who sat next to him.
~ ~ ~
The days of the weeks that followed rushed by and left little time for worry. Every morning Ida got up before six and had breakfast on the table by seven. After the six residents had eaten and the dishes were cleared away, Ida began making pies. But even as her hands flew from task to task, she pictured James and his family. Although the years told her that James would be a man well into his fifties, in her mind he remained young. The wife, Joelle, was faceless. The granddaughter, she imagined as a bouncy teenager who would bring new life to the tired old house.
“Grandma,” Ida muttered every so often, trying on the name for size. It fit perfectly.
Oddly enough she did not hear from Sam Caldwell at all that week, and she also did not receive a bill for his services. Ida simply assumed he was in Cherry Hill tracking down James and his family, which was all well and good with her.
On Sunday evening Sam Caldwell telephoned. “I’ve put together a report on my findings. Would it be okay if I stop by tomorrow morning to go over it with you?”
Ida had waited thirty years, and another day seemed too much to bear. “Did you find James?”
“I’ll give you all the details tomorrow,” Caldwell replied.
“Why can’t you just tell me now?” Ida asked, but instead of giving a reason, Caldwell just said he’d be there at eight the next morning and hung up.
That night sleep was impossible for Ida. She was too hot with the blanket on and too cold with it off. The pillow seemed lumpy, and the ticking of the bedside clock became a troublesome distraction. After listening to the tick, tick, tick for more than an hour, she wrapped the clock in a flannel nightgown and stuffed it into the bottom drawer of the chest.
Even with the clock gone, Ida twisted and turned. There were brief moments when she could imagine Caldwell had found James. Not just James, but his entire family. When that happened the warmth of happiness settled over her but it was always short-lived, for the fear of truth followed close behind. It came, clamped an icy claw around her throat, and screamed in her ear.
Ida kept asking herself if Caldwell found James and his family, why didn’t he say so? Why didn’t he simply say where they were and how much she owed him? It was never a good thing when someone was hesitant to present their bill. You get what you pay for.
She thought back on Big Jim’s last visit with Doctor Morgenstern. That day the doctor Jim had gone to for more than fifty years hung an X-ray on the wall and explained how he would refer Jim to an oncologist. When they got ready to leave the office, Jim pulled out his wallet. Doctor Morgenstern shook his head and said, “No charge.” It was the only time Ida ever remembered such a thing happening.
When worry and apprehension rose from her stomach into her throat and threatened to choke off her breath, Ida climbed out of bed and went to the kitchen. Before dawn she’d baked two peach pies plus the mincemeat she’d planned to add to her merchandise offering in the fall.
At seven o’clock the residents came for breakfast. Ida had a box of Cheerios, a box of corn flakes, a gallon jug of milk, and a peach pie on the table. “Help yourself,” she said, then turned and went back into the kitchen.
“Where’s the coffee?” Louie said, but by then Ida was gone.
As the others began to eat, Wilbur rose and headed toward the kitchen. He found Ida standing in front of the sink with a stream of tears running down her face.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
Strangely enough he used the same words Jim would have used. Ida turned and fell into his arms sobbing.
“I know something is wrong,” she said. “Something horrible.” She poured out the story of James leaving and Sam Caldwell’s search for the boy.
“Maybe it’s too early to start crying,” Wilbur said. “You haven’t even heard what this Mister Caldwell has to say.”
“If it was good news,” Ida sniffled, “he’d have come right out and said it. So if it’s not something good, it’s got to be something bad.”
“Not necessarily,” Wilbur replied. “A whole lot of life falls between good and bad.”
“That’s true,” Ida conceded.
“Of course it is,” Wilbur said. “Getting married and having babies, that’s good. But all the in-between days of washing diapers, cleaning house, getting out of bed, and going to work, they’re neither good nor bad, they’re just life.”
Ida gave one last sniffle and nodded.
Once she’d stopped crying, Wilbur volunteered to clean up the breakfast dishes and suggested she go freshen up before Mister Caldwell arrived.
~ ~ ~
At five minutes after eight the doorbell rang, and when Ida opened the door Sam Caldwell stood there with the same blank face he always wore, not happy, not sad, not telling anything. “Morning.”
Ida invited Sam in and called for Wilbur to join them as she led the way to the dining room. The three of them sat at the corner end of the table.
“I’ve got good news and not-so-good news,” Caldwell said.
Wilbur slid his chair a bit closer to Ida’s and reached for her hand. “Why don’t you start with the good news?”
Caldwell fumbled through his briefcase, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and laid it on the table. Paper-clipped to the folder was an invoice for eight hundred and forty-seven dollars.
Ida smiled. You get what you pay for.
“Starting at the beginning,” Caldwell said, “James met Joelle Williams when he was working at a club in Nashville. While he was in Nashville he was living at her place, and when he left for New Orleans she went with him. There’s no record of them ever being married, but they did have a child together and the girl was given the Sweetwater name.”
“James didn’t marry the child’s mother?” Ida asked, her disappointment apparent.
Caldwell shook his head. “It doesn’t appear so. He stayed with Joelle for almost five years, then took off. The woman who lived upstairs from them at the time said he claimed to have a job in Mexico, but there’s no proof of it.”
“But he came back, didn’t he?”
Caldwell shook his head again. “Afraid not. Joelle raised the child herself.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Ida murmured.
“Were you able to locate Missus Sweetwater’s son or this Joelle?” Wilbur asked.
“There’s no further trace of James. I was able to follow him out to California and ultimately into Mexico, but after that there’s nothing. Mexico’s a place where a person who wants to get lost can do so easily.”
Wilbur nodded knowingly.
Sam hesitated a moment, then continued. “Joelle remained in New Orleans for another five years. After that, she and the girl moved to Cherry Hill. She remained there until her death in nineteen eighty. Once the mother was gone, the daughter moved to Philadelphia.”
“Were you able to find the daughter?” Wilbur asked.
Caldwell nodded. “Her name is Caroline Jean Sweetwater. She’s single, got a job as a copy editor at Back Roads and Byways, and living with Greg Markey, the features editor.”
“Caroline Jean,” Ida repeated. “Jean is my middle name,” she added wistfully.
“From what I’ve been able to ascertain Caroline barely remembers her father. I
doubt that she has any idea of where he went or where he might now be, but if you’d like to talk with her—”
“Well, of course I want to talk with her, she’s my granddaughter!”
Wilbur let go of Ida’s hand, and she reached for the folder Sam Caldwell offered. Inside there was an address, telephone number, and five photographs of Caroline coming and going from the Back Roads and Byways office building. The profile beneath the pictures said Caroline Jean Sweetwater was twenty-eight years old, never married.
A tear fell from Ida’s eye. “Caroline’s older than James when he left home. Imagine me having a grandbaby all these years and never having the joy of knowing it.”
“It’s never too late to start,” Wilbur said.
“That’s true.” Ida nodded, but in the back of her mind she wondered if there was still a chance she would one day find James. She tried to tell herself she no longer cared, not after his selfish ways had robbed her of a grandchild. But the sad truth is that a mother’s love never dies; it forgives and forgives and then forgives again.
With a heavy heart Ida began to envision all the things she had missed. She tried to see the young woman in the picture as a baby and then a toddler. She tried to hear the sound of the child’s first word, see the courage in her first steps, feel the apprehension in her first day of school. But all those things were gone. Gone forever. Caroline was a woman now. A single woman living with a man, making decisions Ida wished she could have influenced.
Although Ida said very little in her heart she decided that although she had failed James, she would not fail Caroline. She had little other than love to give, but sometimes love was all a person needed.
In Philadelphia
Caroline Sweetwater was sitting at her computer when the telephone rang, and, believing it was Greg, she purposely ignored it. Earlier that morning before he left for work he’d asked her to write an article, which was already overdue. An article that would carry his byline.
“I won’t have time,” she answered. “I’m working on my novel today.”
Greg rolled his eyes in that condescending way he’d mastered. “You’re gonna blow me off for that piece of trash?”
Trying not to hear the ugliness in his tone, Caroline replied, “To you it’s trash. To me it’s a love story.”
“It can wait,” Greg argued. “This article has to be on Tom’s desk tomorrow morning.”
“Then write it yourself,” Caroline answered flatly.
Of course such a statement angered Greg to no end. He flew into a rage, ranting about her ingratitude after all he’d done for her, and how he could no longer love someone with such an attitude. When pleas and threats failed to change her answer, he angrily slammed his fist against the wall and stormed out.
Such a scene was nothing new. It had happened countless times before; different days, different projects, but always the same bitter accusations and demands. For three years Caroline had written most of the articles appearing under Greg’s byline. Early on he’d promised that in time she would have her own column, but it never happened. When he moved into the corner office she remained in a cubicle, proofreading, editing, and writing his words.
It started innocently enough. Four years ago he’d asked for her opinion on the Hampshire Inn article he’d written, and she’d made a number of suggestions.
“Great ideas,” he’d said, flashed a smile that was irresistible, and invited her to dinner to show his appreciation. One dinner led to several more, and when Greg lost his lease a year later he moved into Caroline’s studio apartment.
“This is just short-term,” he promised, “because with two of us, we’re going to need a larger place.”
Caroline, who by then had fallen madly in love with Greg, imagined that come Christmas he’d be slipping an engagement ring on her finger. Instead she received a pair of pearl earrings. She moved her expectation of a ring ahead to April. But when her birthday arrived, he gave her a computer he’d bought at a discount.
By then Greg had begun to find various reasons to stay late at the office. There was always a last-minute conference call with the West Coast affiliate, or a strategy meeting, or a dinner with an important advertiser. During those empty evenings Caroline started something she had long wanted to do: she began writing a novel. At first it was little more than a title page, but in time it grew and blossomed into a love story. And if you looked closely and read between the lines, it was easy enough to see it was the love story she hoped to be living.
Caroline would close her eyes and see the story unfold; then she’d transform her vision into magical words that fairly danced across the page. She and Greg became the fictional Claire and Matthew. But, unlike Greg, Matthew was madly in love with Claire.
While Greg found other things to do, Caroline spent evenings pouring her heart into page after page of the novel she’d titled Someday. The lonely weeks turned into months, and the months became years. In time a wall rose up between Caroline and Greg. Bricks of resentment, thoughtlessness, and anger were laid one on top of another until the wall reached a point where hope could no longer slide through the cracks.
But even the most hopeless love doesn’t disappear like a shadow in darkness. It clings to you and hangs on with every last thread of possibility until one day you see the ugly truth of what it is: something that never really was. When that finally happened, it was too late. The ill-tempered and vengeful Greg was Caroline’s boss. For her there was no longer an easy way out.
~ ~ ~
When the telephone rang a second time, Caroline grabbed the pillow and covered the phone to muffle the sound. When a softer ring came from beneath the pillow, she moaned, “Go away,” and covered her ears. The answering machine finally clicked on and the caller hung up. Obviously Greg.
Caroline buried her face in her hands. Every ounce of common sense screamed let this be the end of it, but there was a pinprick of possibility poking through her resolve. She thought back to a week earlier when they’d fought over precisely the same thing. She’d refused to write his article on the Delaware Water Gap, and Greg had stormed out saying he’d not be back, ever. But he did come back. He came back with flowers and a feeble apology. He’d kissed her mouth and held her close until she crumbled.
“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t in a bind,” he said, “but this is the last time, I promise.”
Caroline had remained at the computer until two in the morning finishing that article. In the morning he’d scooped up the pages and dashed out the door with little more than a peck on the cheek.
~ ~ ~
Before a half-hour had passed, the telephone began ringing again. Caroline threw Greg’s leather jacket over the pillow, and the ring became little more than a soft buzz. She knew what would happen if she answered the phone: he’d say he was sorry, tell her how much he loved her, and ask if she’d meet him at some little out-of-the-way restaurant so they could talk. When the telephone finally stopped ringing, Caroline gathered her resolve, pulled Greg’s suitcase from the closet, and began packing his clothes. “Not this time,” she sobbed. “Not this time.”
The telephone continued to ring off and on for most of the day; still Caroline refused to answer it. Shortly after nine she heard a key in the door. Greg.
He came in obviously tipsy and carrying a bouquet of flowers that had already started to wilt. “I’m sorry,” he said and offered the flowers. “It’s the stress of the job. It makes me crazy.”
Caroline did not turn to look at him.
“You know what it’s like. Deadline after deadline. My life is hell. If I didn’t have you—”
“You don’t have me,” she said crisply. “I’m through.”
“Through with what?”
“You.” She motioned to the suitcase standing in the hall. “Take your stuff and get out.”
“You’re kidding.”
The words stabbed at Caroline’s heart, but her expression remained flat. “I’m not kidding. Go.”
“No w
ay!” he shouted. “I paid half the rent, and I’m staying.” He suddenly sounded a bit more sober. “Okay, you’re mad, I get it. But we’ll work this out. By tomorrow—” Greg lifted the suitcase onto a chair and began unpacking his clothes.
“Please don’t do this, Greg,” she said. “Our relationship is not working. I need to get on with my life. You don’t care a thing about me—”
He turned and looked at her. “That’s not true. I do care about you.”
Caroline heard the words, but this time she also heard the truth behind them. He cares about me, but he doesn’t love me.
Without saying another word, she turned away. Tomorrow she would go in search of a new job and a new apartment. Even as that thought ran through her mind, a nagging voice whispered, But if he says he loves you? What will you do then?
Ida Sweetwater
I didn’t get twenty minutes worth of sleep last night. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how I’ve got a granddaughter I never knew existed. A number of times I squeezed my eyes shut and tried picturing sheep jumping over a fence. Counting sheep is supposed to make a person sleepy, but it doesn’t really work. Not if you’ve got something more important on your mind. I’d get to three or four sheep, then I’d go back to thinking about Caroline again. I was imagining her smile and her laugh, and I was wishing she’d have that same happy-go-lucky laugh James had.
Yesterday I tried calling her twelve different times, but all I got was an answering machine. It would be downright impossible to tell a machine the things I’ve got to say. Wilbur suggested I ought to leave my name and number with a message for her to call back, but I was afraid to do it. What if she’s already decided she wants nothing to do with her daddy’s family? If she feels that way she might not bother calling back. I can’t take that chance.
James is still my son, and I can’t find it in my heart not to love the boy, but I surely am ashamed of the way he treated his family. If he loved that Joelle enough to be living with her, he ought to have loved her enough to marry her and introduce her to his family. I can’t begin to imagine the hardships the poor woman went through because of James. Married or not, if I’d have known about Joelle all those years ago I would have invited her to come live with us, no questions asked. And knowing the kind heart Big Jim had, I think he would have agreed. He might have been angry with James, but Jim wasn’t the type to take it out on others.
Previously Loved Treasures Page 4
