“She doesn’t need that! She’s already pretty much completely trained!”
But as if on cue, the dog urinates on the floor.
“Put her in the crate, put her in the crate!” Lucille says.
“She has to go out,” Link says, scooping up the puppy. “I’ve got to take her out whenever she does that!”
“Well…Well…put your boots on! It’s snowing out there! It’s cold!”
Link slides into his boots and runs out into Lucille’s backyard. The child has neglected to zip up his coat, and he stands there shivering, watching as the puppy sniffs everything in sight. Lucille has to admit the puppy is awfully cute, a kind of cocker with a face made for a greeting card. A sweet nature, too. However…She looks at the puddle of pee, then goes to get paper towels and bleach. Link will tell her he would have taken care of it, and he would have, would have done a good job, too, but she can’t let it just sit there.
By the time Lincoln brings the dog in, Lucille has finished cleaning up, and, as predicted, Link starts to protest that he would have done it. But Lucille says, “It’s just this once. If she pees again, it’s all yours.”
“She won’t,” Lincoln says. “She’s just mixed up, being in a new place. She’ll settle down.”
They decide to make Christmas cookies, and Lucille shows the boy how to make pinwheels, and doesn’t he think those are fun. She watches how carefully he places the rectangle of chocolate dough on top of the vanilla, and then she shows him how to roll everything up, jelly-roll style. They put the log of dough in the refrigerator until later that evening, when they can slice off the cookies to bake.
After a dinner of fish sticks and Tater Tots and candied carrots, they are sitting at the dining room table playing Crazy Eights and sampling the first batch of cookies out of the oven when Lincoln says, “Lucille? Why do you eat so much crap?”
She sits back in her chair. She gestures to the cookies. “You call this crap?”
“Yeah. I mean, they taste good, and they’re pretty, but they’re really bad for you.”
“Oh, they are not.”
“They have so much sugar! And butter!”
“Butter is good for you!”
“No it isn’t.”
She stands and rips off her apron. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my backpack.”
“Go and get it.” These kids today. Nola knows how to look things up on a phone!
When Link returns, his phone in his hand, she says, “Ask it, ‘Is butter good for you?’ ”
The boy talks into his phone, saying, “Hey Siri, is butter good for you?”
“Here’s what I found on the Web,” says some disembodied, suspiciously polite voice. Link reads silently, then says, “Wow. There’s no association at all between saturated fat and cardiac disease. And here’s an article on seven reasons why butter is healthy in moderation. But, uh-oh, there’s also one called ‘Can Butter Kill You?’ ”
“Give me that phone,” Lucille says, lunging for it.
Lincoln laughs and pulls it away. He taps the screen, reads quickly. “Huh! Butter can’t kill you, but margarine might! Wow!”
“Told you.” Lucille goes into the kitchen to take the last batch of cookies from the oven, and Lincoln follows her.
“Wait till I tell my mom this,” he says, and suddenly the mood in the kitchen changes.
“How is your mom?” Lucille asks carefully. She puts the tray of cookies on top of the oven, turns it off.
“Bad.”
She turns to look at the boy. “Oh, now.”
“It’s true. And you know it, too.”
Lucille can’t think of anything to say. Finally she manages, “I think you’d better let the puppy out once more. And get ready for bed. It’s late, and it’s a school night.”
Lincoln looks out the window. The snowfall has intensified. “I’m glad my dad is with my mom,” he says.
“I’m glad, too. And I’m glad you’re here with me, Link.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He picks up the puppy, who has fallen asleep under the table, and lets her out, then he gently settles her into her crate. After dinner, Lucille makes the puppy a dog bed using an extra pillow and one of her flannel pillowcases. They both watch the dog settle in on it and close her eyes. “She loves it!” Lincoln says, and Lucille says, “Who wouldn’t?”
Lincoln is in bed and almost asleep when Lucille comes in to say good night. He has moved the puppy’s crate to be beside him, and the dog opens one eye to regard Lucille, then returns to sleep.
“I bet there won’t be school tomorrow,” Lincoln says.
“I know,” Lucille says. “Those school administrators are a bunch of wusses. Wouldn’t hurt you kids one bit to go to school when there’s a little snow on the ground.”
“They said on the TV that it could be a foot!”
“Oh, pooh, that’s nothing. I used to walk to school in three feet of snow!”
Lincoln smiles. “That’s such a stereotype.”
As ever, Lucille is impressed at Lincoln’s vocabulary. In some ways, kids today seem so much smarter. But they can’t add in their heads anymore. They have no idea how to use the reference room in the library. They rely on their phones for everything, even socializing. Why don’t they get off their phones and play Capture the Flag? At least Link loves to read. There’s always hope when a kid—or an adult, for that matter—likes to read.
“What’s a stereotype?” she asks him.
“The way old people always say how tough it was for them. And how we have it so easy now.”
“You do!” Lucille says.
He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. In some ways.” He turns onto his side, away from her. “Good night, Lucille.”
She feels bad about what she said. Worrying about your mother dying is hardly having it easy.
She pats his shoulder. “Call me if you need me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“If there’s no school tomorrow, know what we’re going to do?”
“What?”
“Have a John Wayne movie marathon, that’s what.”
“Great,” Lincoln says, and turns to look over his shoulder at her. “Really. I mean it. I like those movies.”
“You mostly laugh at them.”
“But I like them.” He settles back onto his side. She smells him, little-boy smell mixed with soap—he loves her Lifebuoy soap.
Lucille sits on the edge of his bed. She looks out the window over the bed for a while, watching the snow fall. Then she says softly, in case Lincoln has fallen asleep already, “I used to be in love with John Wayne.”
Link turns over, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Yes. I loved Gene Autry the best, but I loved John Wayne, too.”
“Did you ever meet them?”
Lucille laughs. “Oh, good heavens, no. And if I did I probably would have fainted dead away.”
“You probably wouldn’t have liked them that much in person, anyway. You probably wouldn’t have loved them, anyway.”
“You think not?”
“No. Real love isn’t like that. My dad says real love is when the other person is your best friend and you shouldn’t have to work hard around them, it should be, like, more natural, and you just want to be with them even if you’re not doing anything.”
“You’re right. And I did have a love like that. His name was Frank Pearson—isn’t that a lovely name? Frank Pearson, but I only got to be with him for a little while. I loved him way back in high school but then he married someone else and he didn’t even want to.”
“Why did he marry her, then?”
“Well, that’s not…”
“Was she pregnant?”
Lucille’s mouth falls open.
Lincoln smiles.
“As
a matter of fact, she was pregnant, and in those days, you did the honorable thing, and he married her. Then after many, many years she died, and he wrote me a letter when I was eighty-three. Eighty-three years old but I had never forgotten him, and I thought, what the heck. Well, we got together and we really liked each other and we were going to get married and then he died. He had a heart attack. I thought I’d die myself I hurt so bad after that, but I didn’t. I’m still here.”
He’s looking at her in a whole new way. “So, you guys…like…dated?”
Lucille stands. “Okay. Good night, now.”
She goes into her room and climbs into bed, turns off her bedside lamp. She stares into the darkness. That there is a child sleeping in her house, under her care. Huh. Things can certainly happen in a funny order.
When Lucille was a girl, a carnival came to town one summer and they had a ride called the Whirligig. You sat in some wooden contraption that jerked you here, there, and everywhere. One minute you’d be going forward, the next backward or sideways or tilted over so far you thought you might fall out. It was never still and you had no idea what might come next. That’s life. You’re born, and you get a ride on the Whirligig.
She yawns and feels herself falling into a deep sleep.
* * *
—
SOME WARMTH COMES TO HER. It comes to her and in her and all around her. Kind of like a hot flash, only pleasant.
She opens her eyes to see a familiar figure at the side of her bed, his hands clasped in front of him like a shy person. She rolls her eyes. The angel is wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, sneakers. His wings are awfully ratty for someone in service to the On High.
He extends a glowing hand. “Lucille Rachel Howard—”
“Not on your life,” she says. “I’m babysitting a little boy tonight.”
The angel looks confused.
“If you knew what you were doing, you would know perfectly well that I have a child sleeping right down the hall and I am not going to die and have him wake up alone with a corpse. That family needs me right now. Also, when it is time, I want Frank Pearson to escort me out of here, not you.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t be influenced by anything. I have a job I must do.”
Lucille wants to scream. She wants to at least yell. And so she gets out of bed and puts on her robe and gestures for the angel to follow her. She goes past Lincoln’s room and looks in. All is quiet. With infinite care, she closes the door, then clomps downstairs, the angel kind of floating behind her.
She sits at the kitchen table and gestures to the other chair. The angel turns it sideways so that his wings can be accommodated. Then he sits down and folds his hands on the table. “You’re making this awfully difficult for me,” he tells Lucille.
“I’m making it difficult for you?”
“If you had come with me the first time, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.”
“If I had come with you the first time, Link wouldn’t have had anyone to take care of him, and as you must know, he needs someone to take care of him because his mother is very sick and in the hospital. She’s very sick; in fact, she…” Her face changes, and she leans in closer. “Say. You must know. Is she going to die? Or will she live?”
Nothing.
“For Pete’s sake, tell me!”
His face assumes a look of great dignity. “It all depends.”
“Well, of course it all depends!” Lucille says. “But can’t you tell me what will happen? Or…can’t you ask for a little favor? You must have some good connections!”
Nothing. She can see through him, just a bit. There on the shelf behind him are her favorite cookbooks, all lined up, and she can see Hoosier Mama Book of Pies and Rosie’s All-Butter Fresh Cream Sugar-Packed Baking Book.
“Can you eat?” Lucille asks suddenly.
“No. Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really?”
“Well, it’s not necessary.”
“But can you?”
“Honestly? I haven’t tried.”
Lucille lifts the foil off the platter of pinwheels that she and Lincoln made and pushes it toward him. “Try.”
The angel regards the cookies, then lifts one up, puts it in his mouth, and chews. Then his expression changes, and fat tears roll down his face.
“What?” Lucille says, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”
“I can taste him.”
“Who?”
“The little boy. I can taste what he feels.” He sits still for a moment. “All right, Miss Howard. You can stay.” He stands and bumps into the table, then the chair. He shrugs and grins at Lucille—a crooked grin—then disappears. And Lucille gasps. That smile!
* * *
—
IN THE MORNING, LUCILLE has no time to spend thinking about yet another weird dream. She turns on the radio and hears that the schools are indeed closed. Also, the library’s class on Polish paper cutting as well as tonight’s performance of the Wham Bam Theater Company’s production of Pippin. The AA meeting at the First Baptist will be moved to tomorrow, and the Knitters Club will reconvene at its usual time next week. “For heaven’s sake,” Lucille mutters, as she makes coffee. “It isn’t the Apocalypse!”
After Lincoln awakens and lets both dogs out, Lucille makes the boy a toad in a hole and she says it’s okay for him to share some toast with the animals.
At one point, Lincoln looks at her closely, then says, “Are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, dunking her toast in her coffee.
“I don’t know. Don’t get mad, but you look sick.”
“I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. You see if, when you get old, you don’t look like a cotton sheet left too long in the dryer when you don’t sleep well.”
He finishes his orange juice and brings his dishes to the sink.
“Why didn’t you sleep well?” he asks.
What to say? “Oh, I’ve been having a nightmare that keeps recurring. Do you know what ‘recurring’ means?”
“Sure, it means coming back again and again.”
She regards the boy with a mix of admiration and annoyance. “Tell me something. Can you spell ‘eleemosynary’?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a word. You don’t know what it means, huh?”
“No. What’s it mean?”
“It means of or pertaining to charity. Now try to spell it.”
He sits down at the table and stares into her face, as though her expression will help him. Well, it won’t. Lucille has a good poker face, it’s just that she forgets to use it. But now she is totally impassive. A sphinx.
“E-L-I—”
“Nope. Ding-dong, you’re wrong.”
“Okay.”
“Want to try again?”
“E-L-E-M—”
“Nope.”
“E-L-A?”
“Three times and you’re out!”
“So how do you spell it?” Lincoln asks, and when she tells him, he says “Really?”
“Really. You can look it up.”
“No, I trust you. Cool, I learned a new word and I can fool my friends with how to spell it.”
If there’s one thing that Lucille hates, it’s trying to badger somebody impervious to badgering.
Oh, but what is wrong with her? He’s such a sweet kid. He can’t help it if he’s precocious. It’s not like he brags about it. He can’t hurt anyone by being smart. Lucille is just one big crab, on account of lack of sleep. She feels as irritable as can be.
Lincoln is staring at her.
“What?” she asks.
“What was your nightmare about?”
“I don’t remember, really.”
Lincoln nods sympathetically. “Yeah, sometimes even when you
can’t remember, it still scares you.”
“Right.”
“When I was little, like three or four? I used to dream every night about Jelly Man. Every night, I swear. He was just a man made of jelly but to me he was really, really scary. He had these big black holes for eyes, and he would come into my room and just stand there.”
“Well, that’s enough, isn’t it, to have someone come in your room and just stand by your bed. It’s just…It’s just invasive.”
“Yeah.” Lincoln picks up the puppy and puts her in his lap. “I thought of a name for my dog. And guess what, it was in a dream I had last night.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, a man was standing at my bed, like Jelly Man, only he was nice. And he was not jelly, he was just a man. And he leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘Hope.’ So that’s the puppy’s name!”
“Well, that’s a very nice name. But the man…do you know what he looked like?”
“No, I didn’t see him very well. I didn’t see his face. All I remember is that he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.”
Lucille’s mouth goes dry. “Is that so.”
“Yup.” He sets his puppy on the floor. “Want to go out, Hope?”
The tail, round and round.
“Okay. Come!”
The puppy follows him to the back door, he opens it to let her out, then comes in to put on his coat and boots. “There’s a lot of snow! Can we stay out for a while?”
“Of course.”
Lucille sits still, staring into her empty coffee cup. So what. He didn’t say the man in his dream was wearing a plaid shirt, and he said nothing about seeing any wings. Maybe she and Lincoln just shared the same kind of dream because they were sleeping under the same roof. It could happen.
She is about to wash up the dishes when the phone rings. Iris, no doubt, asking when she should come today.
But it’s not Iris. It’s Jason, asking to speak to his son, and his voice is rigid-sounding, almost mean. At first, Lucille thinks, Wait, is he angry at me for teasing Lincoln? But he doesn’t know about that. And then he says, “Oh, Lucille…” and a big sword of ice plunges straight down the center of Lucille’s spine. He says Abby’s alive, but she’s way worse. Jason needs to get Link out to the hospital, but he can’t leave his wife.
Night of Miracles Page 14
