Previously Loved Treasures

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “Let’s go,” the guard said and eased Max toward the door.

  Standing behind the desk with her arms folded across her chest, Susan chided, “And for your information that will is completely valid and will stand up in court, whether Caroline Sweetwater is Ida’s granddaughter or not.”

  Before Max reached the outskirts of South Rockdale, Susan had already walked across to the courthouse and filed the will for probate.

  ~ ~ ~

  On the drive back to Rose Hill, Doctor Payne did not say a word. When Max asked if he was going to tell the others what had transpired, Payne feigned interest in a magazine article about high-rise buildings in Panama City. The silence angered Max more than a simple yes or no. The angrier he got, the harder he pressed the accelerator. At one point they sped through a stretch of farmland going ninety miles per hour, and Max came within inches of hitting a cow that had wandered onto the roadway.

  When they arrived at the house, Payne climbed out of the car and slammed the door with such finality the car vibrated for a full ten seconds.

  That evening when the residents gathered at the dining room table there was no mistaking the fact that Doctor Payne had moved to Caroline’s camp.

  “Unfortunately, Susan Schleicher was of no assistance,” Max said. “She was under the mistaken impression I was James and—”

  “It’s over,” Payne cut in. “Over. There is no grey area. No ‘yes, but.’ No ‘what if.’ Ida left her entire estate to Caroline, and that’s that.”

  In an effort to save face, Max said, “It may come to that, but I didn’t actually get to finish my conversation with—”

  Payne leaned across the table and stuck his face in Max’s. “It’s over! The woman threw your pompous ass out of her office! Can you not understand that—”

  “She threw him out of her office?” Harriet snickered.

  “Whoa, boy,” Louie guffawed. “That’s what I call an ass-kicking!”

  Max banged his fist against the table. “Enough!” Then he stood, kicked his chair over, and left the room.

  It was more than a week before he returned to the table.

  ~ ~ ~

  The anger settled on Max like black coveralls, and he went for days at a time without venturing from his room. When Caroline rapped on the door asking if he’d like a sandwich or slice of a store-bought pie, he told her, “Stop bothering me!”

  In the days that followed Max seldom came to breakfast, and on the rare occasion when he did come to supper he was foul-mouthed and nasty. He told Laricka her grandsons had the look of pigs and implied Harriet was easier than a street prostitute. Caroline he called a swindler and a disgrace to the Sweetwater name.

  For more than two weeks Max’s anger simmered at a hair’s breadth below the boiling point, but it exploded the night Caroline made a beef stew. Max, having had several shots of vodka before dinner, was in an ornerier than usual mood. He took a large piece of beef in his mouth, then moments later spat it onto the floor. “You call this a stew? It’s not fit for dogs.”

  Clarence rushed over and gobbled the meat on the floor, then approached Max and nosed his arm looking for seconds. Without thinking twice, Max backhanded the dog and sent him sliding across the floor.

  Caroline jumped out of her seat and rounded the table in three long strides. In that single moment all conversation and the clatter of silverware came to an abrupt halt.

  Taller than Max and quite possibly stronger, she reached out, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and yanked him from his seat. “Clarence is my dog!” she screamed, her face hovering over his. “And if you ever lay a hand on him again, I’ll run a knife through your miserable heart!”

  Panting hot angry bursts of air in his face, she held onto Max for a moment, dangling him in the air. When she finally let go, he dropped into the chair with a thud.

  Too much water had passed beneath the bridge. Too much anger had built up. The weeks of resentment bubbled inside of Max, and he lashed out.

  “Some shithole dump this is,” he said bitterly. “You care more about a dog than you do the people who live here.”

  As angry as Max was, Caroline was now angrier. “Yes,” she answered through clenched teeth. “I do care more about Clarence than you!”

  Max mumbled something under his breath, and then Caroline finished her thought. “If you don’t like it, leave!”

  Max rose from the table and walked off.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day Max installed a deadbolt lock on his bedroom door. From that day forward the room remained locked, whether he was inside sleeping off another bender or outside stumbling toward the Owl’s Nest to tie one on.

  Caroline Sweetwater

  Yesterday if you told me I could get angry enough to do what I did, I would have laughed in your face. Me? I’d say. A person whose very nature is to be peaceable?

  I’ve spent my life stepping back to avoid an argument, and I always believed I was doing what needed to be done to hold life together. Now, looking back, I realize I was just being stupid, sticking my head in the sand and hoping trouble would pass me by.

  The thing is trouble doesn’t pass you by. It stays and hovers over your head like a storm cloud full of teardrops and heartache. I’ve been living under that cloud for way too long. I should have given voice to my anger a long time ago, but I didn’t. Stupid, I know.

  I think back on how Greg did things that should have been unforgivable and how I squashed my own hurt just so I could forgive him. Not only did I forgive him, most times I didn’t even argue the point. The sad truth is I was afraid of losing Greg the way Mama lost Daddy. The thought that I’d be better off without a man like him never even crossed my mind.

  Wimpy as it may sound, I’ve never had enough courage to stick up for myself. But defending somebody you love is a whole lot different than sticking up for yourself. It makes you able to do things you didn’t think you could do. When I defend Clarence, I’m fighting for somebody I love. And I love Clarence way more than I ever loved myself.

  Yes, I know you’re going to tell me Clarence isn’t a somebody, he’s a stray that I picked up along the highway. But to me, he’s a somebody.

  We’re kind of alike, Clarence and me. We’re both strays abandoned by someone we thought loved us. I saved Clarence just like Grandma Ida saved me.

  I know Grandma is gone, but I feel like she’s still here. I go day to day pretending she’ll be back tomorrow or maybe the next day.

  It’s hard doing all the things that need to be done in this house, and if I let myself accept that Grandma will never be back I’d fall to pieces for sure.

  The Lamp

  After Caroline’s threat, Max stayed clear of her and most everyone else in the house. If he happened to pass one of the other residents, they stepped aside and said nothing. For the remainder of that week he spent the days sleeping, and when the sky turned dark he left the house and headed for the Owl’s Nest. After long hours of sitting at the bar and pulling bits of conversation from strangers with no interest in talking, he’d stumble back to his room. By that time the house was dark and most of the residents sleeping.

  On several occasions Caroline heard him lumbering about the kitchen, obviously pilfering leftovers from the refrigerator. Since her room overlooked the center hallway she could see the glow of the refrigerator light coming from the kitchen and hear the clattering of dishes. In the morning she often discovered half a roast chicken or large slabs of ham missing, along with a basket of biscuits.

  An edginess that hadn’t previously existed began to creep into the house.

  The first to notice it was Wilbur. He took Caroline aside and suggested she might want to ask Max to leave. “He’s trouble,” Wilbur warned.

  “Not Max,” she answered. “He’s harmless. He’s just acting up to prove how mad he is. In time he’ll get over it.”

  Wilbur gave a rather doubtful shrug. “Maybe so. But if I were you, I’d keep a wary eye.”

  Of course, Carolin
e didn’t. She couldn’t, because in her mind Max was family. He was Big Jim’s brother, her great uncle, her only living relative. Whenever one of the residents suggested Max should leave, she thought about how Ida had taken her in. “He’s family,” she’d say and drop the subject without any further explanation.

  She was certain that given time Max would come around.

  Wilbur knew better, and when he went to his room at night he remained awake for a long time listening, waiting to hear the lock click shut on Max’s door. Once he was certain Max had gone to bed, Wilbur allowed himself to sleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the days passed, Caroline settled into becoming as much like Ida as was possible. She started early in the morning, cooking pots of oatmeal and frying platters of eggs. As soon as the table was cleared and the dishes washed, she’d begin tidying up the house. On a chilly morning when she rose fifteen minutes late, she threw on a housecoat that had once belonged to Ida and hurried downstairs to start breakfast. When Laricka rushed past the kitchen she caught a glimpse of Caroline and let out a gasp that could be heard in the attic.

  “Oh, my Lord,” she said, “I thought that was Ida’s ghost standing there.”

  “No,” Caroline answered. “It’s just me.”

  ~ ~ ~

  That afternoon Wilbur talked to Caroline as a grandfather might.

  “You’re too young to be living a life of cleaning and cooking for old folks,” he said. “You should be getting out, having fun with young people your own age.”

  “I am having fun,” Caroline answered. “I’m doing what I think Grandma Ida would want me to do.”

  Wilbur heard the weight of responsibility in her voice and gave his head a sad shake. “I doubt this is what your grandma wanted for you. I know it’s not what I’d want for my grandson.” He thought about his own grandson, a year older than Caroline, living in Paris and enjoying a carefree life.

  “Maybe you should think about selling the house,” he said. “You could take the money and move to Paris.”

  “Paris? What would I do in Paris?”

  “Finish the novel you’re writing,”

  “Oh, that,” Caroline said dismissively. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a writer.”

  It had been more than a month since she’d turned on the computer, and the images she once had of a love story were long gone. Lost, perhaps, in a pile of oven mitts and dishcloths.

  “If not Paris, maybe New York,” Wilbur suggested.

  Caroline shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, and that was the end of the conversation.

  ~ ~ ~

  On the second Thursday after the incident, Caroline was upstairs dusting the loft when she heard a loud crash. Fearing the worst, she came flying down the stairs.

  Huge tears rolled down Laricka’s face. “I am so sorry, so sorry…” Standing behind her were the two grandsons. Fragments of what was once a lamp lay scattered across the parlor floor. “Don’t run, I told them. A thousand times I said, don’t run.” Laricka turned and glared at the boys. “But did they listen? No, of course not!”

  “We’re sorry,” the boys said in unison.

  “Sorry?” Laricka repeated. “Sorry won’t fix the lamp!”

  Caroline stepped into the fray. “No problem. A lamp is easily enough replaced.”

  “But this was Miss Ida’s favorite,” Laricka replied mournfully.

  Caroline knew there was no replacing a thing someone had treasured, so she began gathering the pieces from the floor. “Maybe I can have it fixed.”

  After she’d scoured the floor on her hands and knees looking for stray splinters of glass, Caroline placed all thirty-six pieces in a box and headed for town. She planned to take the lamp to a jeweler she’d seen on the far end of Main Street, but as she drew near the shop where she’d bought the desk something caused her to pull over and park.

  Although she hadn’t noticed it being on the window during her first visit to the store, it was there now. Right beneath Peter Pennington’s name the lettering read “Lamps Repaired.”

  Caroline climbed out of the car and circled around to retrieve the broken lamp from the trunk. Before she could gather the box into her arms, Peter Pennington stood beside her.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said and lifted the box from the trunk.

  “But how…” Caroline stammered.

  “Where else would you bring a broken lamp?” Peter said and gave a mischievous grin. He started for the store and Caroline followed behind.

  “I don’t know if this is fixable,” she said. “But it was my grandma’s favorite, so I’d really like to…” Her words trailed off. Maybe it was hoping against hope, expecting someone to repair a lamp with pieces as small as a splinter. Caroline held her breath as Peter peered inside the box.

  “It’s repairable,” he said and promised to have it by noon of the next day.

  “Oh, bless your heart,” Caroline replied gleefully.

  “Indeed,” Peter said, then asked about the desk she’d bought.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been writing,” Caroline said. “I think I’ve lost the inspiration.”

  “Lost the inspiration? Impossible. That desk is full of stories waiting to be written!”

  “With Grandma gone, I’ve got a lot of responsibility and not much free time.”

  Peter nodded knowingly.

  “And it’s difficult to write about a romance when—”

  “Romance?” Peter peered over the top of the thick glasses he wore. “That’s not what you’re supposed to be writing.” He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. “Haven’t you listened to the desk?”

  “Listened to the desk?” She laughed.

  Peter nodded. “I know you think it’s a silly idea, but try it. Sit there and wait. Let the desk tell you what it has to say.”

  He was such a sweet little man, and since he was willing to repair the lamp Caroline didn’t want to jeopardize their friendship by laughing at how ridiculous such a thought was. “I’ll give it a try,” she said and, promising to be back tomorrow, left.

  Peter watched her leave, sad because he knew his advice would go unheeded.

  ~ ~ ~

  On Friday afternoon Caroline came back to pick up the lamp.

  “Ready and waiting,” Peter said. He pulled out the same yellow step stool, climbed up, and retrieved the lamp, which sat on the top shelf. “Here you go,” he said and handed it down to her.

  The lamp was perfect, exactly as it once was. No glue lines, no mismatched pieces, no evidence that it had ever been repaired. “How on earth…” Caroline wondered. She opened her purse and asked how much she owed him.

  “One dollar.”

  “One dollar? But this must have been hours of work…”

  “Not so much,” he answered, then asked if she’d tried sitting at the desk.

  “Um, not yet,” Caroline said. “I’m still learning to cook, and I spend most of my afternoon—”

  “I know,” he said and gave a sad nod. “It’s a complex thing to let your thoughts fly free when your body is tied to the labors of life.”

  “That’s true, but I believe it’s what Grandma would have wanted.” Caroline smiled as she thought back. “Grandma loved the residents, and I know she’d want me to take care of them.”

  “Generous gesture,” Peter said. “Very generous.” He gave a thoughtful nod, then followed with a smile. “I’ve got something intended for your grandma, but now I’m convinced you should have it.” He pulled the yellow footstool to a stack of shelves in the far back of the store and climbed up.

  From where Caroline stood the shelf appeared empty. Peter stretched his arm to the far back and pulled down a picture covered with dust.

  “Mercy,” he said, “this looks like it needs a cleaning.” He pursed his lips, blew a few puffs of breath across the picture, then climbed down and handed it to her.

  The picture was old, a faded black-and-white portrait from the 1920s or may
be the ’30s. Caroline looked at the smiling face of the young man. “Was this someone Grandma knew?”

  “No,” Peter answered wistfully. “Your grandma never knew him, but I did. I knew both Will and his twin sister, Abigail. The picture belonged to Abigail and it was something she treasured.” Peter chuckled. “After she died the picture was tossed in the garbage. Knowing how precious it was I couldn’t let that happen, so I rescued it.”

  Caroline smiled. “I’m sure she appreciated—”

  “She certainly did. But having the picture was a big responsibility. It meant I had to find the right person to give it to.”

  “Why was Grandma the right person?”

  “In time you’ll understand.” Peter laughed. “Now that Ida’s no longer here, I believe you’re the right person.”

  “Me?” Caroline held onto the picture for a moment, then passed it back to Peter. “I don’t think so. What with buying food and household expenses, I’m kind of strapped for cash. Maybe next time—”

  Peter handed the picture back to her. “It’s a gift. Hang it over your desk, and it will give you the freedom to write.”

  “Oh, you mean like a source of inspiration?”

  “You could say that,” Peter replied. “Like a source of inspiration.”

  Wilbur Washington

  Having boys is a whole lot easier than having girls. I know, because Martha and I raised two boys. When one of them was staring trouble in the eye, I’d say, Toughen up, kid. Act like a man! That works fine for boys, but what do you say to a girl?

  Especially a girl who isn’t ready to listen.

  I know she’s not really my granddaughter, but I think Ida would want me to think of her that way. That’s how Ida was. She took care of any needy soul who came her way. She was the sort who’d take a mongrel dog from the street and treat him like he had a pedigree.

  No question Ida had a big heart, but she also had a misplaced sense of loyalty when it came to Max. Being he was Big Jim’s brother she felt she owed him, and that’s why she let him move in. Of course, she had no way of knowing what would happen after she was gone.