Such Good People

by Martha Whitmore Hickman

  Laura went to her. “Mother!” She kissed Rachel’s cheek, put her arms around her, and then stood back. “Mother,” she said again.

  “Hello, dear,” Rachel said. “It’s nice to see you. Did you just arrive?”

  *

  In the ensuing days, Lillian’s lakeside home gave them lots to do—basketball, swimming, boating—plenty of room to roam around or sit and talk endlessly. Laura soon found herself back in her mother’s circle of favor, able to reenter the intimacy they had once known. Rachel seemed stronger than she had since before Will’s death—mellower, too, relinquishing time with them, going to bed early, leaving them to their late-night revelries, letting some of the conversation go by without asking, “Can’t you speak louder? I can’t hear,” while her unused hearing aids dangled from her ears.

  “Grandma is turning into a sweet old lady,” she said to Annie one day.

  “Oh?” Annie said. “I don’t know that that’s better. I liked her before.”

  One afternoon most of the crowd went off to ride on the dunes. Laura and Annie, in charge of the night’s cookout, stayed home to get ready and to keep Rachel company. “I don’t feel quite bouncy enough for dune buggies today,” Rachel had said.

  After her rest, Rachel suggested they have some lemonade. As Annie brought the tray with three tall glasses clinking with ice out onto the porch, where Laura was helping her mother into a chair, Rachel said, “Oh, and those pictures from your prom—may I see them now?”

  “Sure.” Annie distributed the glasses, returned the tray to the kitchen, and came back, the sheaf of photos in her hand.

  “Your father took these, I guess?” Rachel said, reaching for them.

  Laura and Annie exchanged glances. “No,” Annie said. “Gordon’s father did.”

  “I see. Well…” Rachel slid her glasses down her nose and moved the first picture close to her eyes. “This your young man?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Annie smiled. “I guess that would be all right with Gordon.”

  “What a lovely dress!” Rachel exclaimed, squinting to get the best possible view. “Was it white?”

  “No, kind of a pale peach. Apricot. Pale apricot chiffon,” Annie said, looking over her grandmother’s shoulder.

  “My wedding dress was ivory chiffon,” Rachel said.

  “And mine,” Laura said.

  Rachel turned to Annie. “Did you know your mother wore my wedding dress? We made it over to fit her.”

  “Mom told me,” Annie said. “I remember seeing it when I was a kid. We were up exploring the attic. It’s in a big blue box, right?” She turned to her mother.

  Laura nodded. “You wanted to try on the veil. I put it on you and you looked at yourself in the old mirror up there.”

  Rachel smiled. “Maybe someday you’ll use the veil with your wedding dress.”

  Annie shook her head. “I’m never getting married.”

  “Of course you will.” Rachel scoffed. “A beautiful girl like you.” Her look was wistful. “Though I don’t suppose I’ll be around to see it.”

  Annie reached over and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Nonsense, Grandma. If I ever get married, you’d better be there.”

  They went on through the pictures, heads inclined together.

  Watching them, Laura basked in the glow of their affection for each other. She recalled wryly the old saying that grandparents and grandchildren get along so well because they have a common enemy. Whatever the reason, she loved seeing her daughter and mother together. In fact, this whole reunion with the family was wonderful for them all. Lots of talk of Will, a few occasions for tears, but mostly joy in being together.

  There must be healing in numbers, too. The presence of aunts and uncles, of cousins, the pleasure of swimming and boating and good food, of having Bart and Philip with them, had had a good effect on their own family, seemed to moderate the tensions of the past months. And without Gordon here to occupy so much of Annie’s time, Laura felt they had, for a while at least, reclaimed their daughter.

  At first, Annie had written him every day, eliciting curiosity from her younger cousins, Christine and Jennie, who would see her on the beach, suntan oil glistening from her body, the straps of her white bikini drooping on her arms, her head bent over the vellum pad, and ask, “Are you writing your boyfriend again?”

  Gordon’s first letter to Annie—addressed in a roughly printed scrawl—arrived toward the end of the week. She had been complaining to Laura: “He promised to have a letter waiting for me when I got here.” Annie was on a hike with her cousin Elsa when the mail came. When she returned in midafternoon to the house, Laura was in the small sunroom, reading. “A letter for you, at last.” She pointed to the envelope on the white wicker table.

  “It’s about time—the creep.” Annie picked it up and flopped down on the green-and-white couch near Laura’s chair.

  After a few minutes, Laura looked up. Annie was gazing out the window and the letter lay on her chest. “Nice letter?” she asked.

  “I guess.” Annie picked up the single sheet of paper and flapped it in the air. “I write him volumes. And what do I get—a whole page and a half, about a dumb baseball game.”

  Laura suppressed a smile, remembering Trace’s factual accounts of university doings and her own extended ramblings about the meaning of life. “I used to think I wrote better letters than your father, too. Maybe boys don’t express themselves as easily.”

  Just then, Elsa reappeared at the door, wearing her swimsuit. “Ready?” she asked Annie.

  “In a minute.” Annie stood up, letter in hand, and started for the stairs, then detoured to drop a kiss on Laura’s head. “Yeah,” was all she said, but Laura returned to her book, feeling a cumulative ease about Annie that had been rare in recent months.

  Rachel, too, seemed content, though Laura left it to others to ask how her mother was getting along with Carlena. One afternoon as a group of them sat on the porch overlooking the lake, Richard, seated beside Rachel, turned to her. “I understand you have a gem of a housekeeper, Mother.”

  Rachel nodded, apparently unperturbed. “Yes, we seem to be managing quite well. It’s not what I expected, but”—she hesitated—“lots of things happen to us in life that we don’t expect.”

  The night before they were all to leave, Rachel made the rounds of the family, stooping over her cane, waiting expectantly until each one stood and kissed her good night. “It’s been a wonderful week together, hasn’t it?” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I want to thank you all for coming. Now I’m going to bed.” She left amid the murmur of further good nights.

  After a few minutes, Laura went into her mother’s room. Rachel was in bed, the light on, a book lying facedown on the blanket. Her eyes were closed, her head drooping slightly to one side. At the sound of the door opening, she started and looked up. “Oh, hello, dear.”

  “I just came to say good night again.” Laura bent to kiss her mother’s cheek—the skin fine like a baby’s, but sagging into the hollow of her cheek like old cloth hung on the arched bones of her face.

  “Good night, dear. I guess I just dropped off.” She picked up the book and passed it to Laura. “Here, take this.”

  Laura put it on the bureau. “It’s been a nice day, hasn’t it?” Rachel smiled. “Didn’t the little children love having Bart and Philip take them in the boat?”

  “Bart and Philip enjoyed it, too. Bart said it reminded him of when he was a kid and Trace would take them on vacation outings.”

  “How your father would have liked that. Laura”—her mother looked at her, eyes entreating—“something happens, like today, the boat rides, and I think, I’ll tell Will. Then I remember.” She paused. “I keep thinking, He must be somewhere where I can reach him. You know?”

  “I know.”

  Rachel loosened the gold wire bows of her glasses. “Take these, too?”

  Laura fitted the glasses into the case and set it on the night-stand. “Shal
l I put the light out?” She reached for it, but her eyes lingered on her mother’s face, the brown eyes turned gray at the edges—the slow fading of pigment over the years. “I love you,” she said.

  “I know you do. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Laura, grateful, touched beyond measure, put her hand over her mother’s as it lay on the bedclothes. “You’re easy to love.” Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “Am I?” she said.

  * * *

  In the morning, the families dispersed. Rachel would stay on a while longer with Lillian, then return to Hadley, where Carlena would be waiting. Howard and his family went back to Texas. Laura and Trace, Bart, Philip, and Annie proceeded to Colorado. They had planned a leisurely trip, with stops along the way.

  With the shrinking of the family to the five of them—or maybe it was the confinement of being in the car so long—some of the euphoria from the reunion seemed to fade. Annie didn’t want to sit in the front seat when Trace was driving. It made her nervous. She didn’t approve of his choice of radio stations. “You choose, then,” he offered. She twirled the dial, couldn’t find anything she liked. When Laura, trying to be conciliatory, expressed a liking for Kathie Mattea, Annie snorted. “You never listen to that kind of music at home! It’s always classical stuff.” Philip and Bart carried on their brotherly banter, their talk about colleges and job searches, apparently unperturbed, prompting Laura to think she would do well to follow their example—which worked for about twenty minutes.

  One day, almost at their destination, they stopped in a college town for ice cream and to wander through a row of shops. After the ice cream, they separated—to meet again in an hour.

  Laura was in a bookstore when she heard the bell over the shop door tinkle.

  Annie came over. “I’ve found something else I’d like for my birthday. It’s just right for my room. Can you come look?”

  Something else? Laura thought. In less than a month, it would be Annie’s birthday. She had a long list of requests—a telephone for her room, a new camera, money to supplement her clothing allowance.

  “Well, all right.” She would at least look.

  The store was an art shop, with hammered silver, turquoise, and art objects formed with string and yarn. Annie led her to a large yarn sculpture hanging from the ceiling. It was an intricate piece done in shades of blue, the yarn wound around crossed wooden dowels to form a three-dimensional tier of shaded blue diamonds.

  “It’s beautiful!” Laura said.

  “Think how great it would look in my room.”

  That was another thing—Annie wanted to do over her room. When she’d broached the subject, Laura had thought, but you’ll be off to college in another year. She hadn’t said it—one doesn’t write off a year as unimportant. She picked up the white tag hanging from the piece—yes, it was expensive. Still, it was beautiful.

  “All right. We’ll get it for your birthday. I don’t wonder you like it.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Annie gave her a quick hug.

  “It’ll he clumsy to carry in the car. Maybe we could have it shipped home.”

  “Good idea.” Annie put her arm through Laura’s. “I love it, Mom. Thanks a lot.” They went to find a clerk.

  The woman came back with them and took down the hanging. “This is a beautiful piece, one of my favorites.” They watched while she shrouded it in tissue and wrote out the sales slip.

  “It’s all handmade, of course.” She handed Laura the slip to sign.

  “Does it have a name, this kind of piece?” Laura asked.

  “It’s called an Eye of God,” the woman said. “Is it for you?” She looked at Annie.

  “Yes, for my birthday.”

  “How old will you be, dear?”

  “Seventeen,” Annie said.

  Laura sat on the cabin porch, sketch pad on her lap, her legs, in dark blue slacks, stretched in front of her, her feet resting on the log railing. Across the valley, Longs Peak thrust into the sky, its crest shrouded in snow, snow curling in sweeps and crescents down the black rock. She pulled her blue sweater more tightly around her. The Colorado mountain air was cool.

  This afternoon, thunderclouds would roll among the high mountains—another in the series of daily storms they had come to expect after this past week—the first of their two weeks at this family resort not far from Estes Park. The trail signs reflected the daily pattern: “ALL CLIMBERS MUST BE OFF THE MOUNTAIN BY 2:00 P.M.” But now the sky was clear. Below her, on this side of the valley, a pine-needled trail sloped through the pine forest, past the barricaded riding stable, to the sheer turquoise rectangle of the swimming pool. Farther down the slope and barely visible through trees was the shingled roof of the main lodge.

  She heard their voices before she saw Trace and the boys climbing the hill toward the cabin, a tall trio advancing, slightly out of step—Bart still the tallest, his hair dark as Trace’s had been before it started to gray; Philip almost blond, Trace’s height, perhaps still growing.

  They reached the steps, climbed onto the cabin porch. “Hi, Mom,” Philip called. Then all three went inside.

  In a moment, they were back out, Trace flipping through a magazine, Bart and Philip carrying bunched-up sweaters.

  “Bart’s going to show me a cirque,” Philip volunteered, fitting an arm into the sleeve of his blue cardigan.

  Bart pulled his tan sweater over his head. “Geo Three fourteen. A college education wasn’t wasted on me.” He straightened the sweater around his waist, nodded toward the stable. “If you see Annie, tell her I’m still interested in riding after lunch. You want to come with us?” he asked Philip.

  Philip shook his head no. “I saw some weird tree frogs behind the lodge, I’m going to take my camera and wait. Very quietly.”

  “Okay, Mr. Audubon,” Bart said.

  “You’re talking birds,” Philip protested. “I said frogs.”

  Bart gave Philip a playful jab as they stepped off the porch. “Come on. Let’s go rock hunting.”

  “I love seeing them together, don’t you?” Laura reached a companionable arm to Trace, behind her. She didn’t connect. She twisted in her chair. He was sitting against the porch rail, reading.

  “What’s so engrossing?”

  He held up a journal. She recognized Philosophical Review. “A piece on linguistics I’m going to use with my honor students. I’m loaning it to a man at the lodge. From Grinnell.”

  It’s vacation! she thought.

  He stood. “Actually, I came to ask if you’d like to go to town in an hour.”

  Her impatience slipped a couple of notches. “Yes, I would. Thanks.”

  “You think any of the kids will want to go?”

  “I doubt it. The boys won’t be back, and Annie’ll be with Roger, as soon as he gets out of a student staff meeting.”

  “With Roger again?”

  “Be glad it isn’t still. I talked with her this morning about coming in so late last night. She promised to keep better hours.” He started down the path and she called, “Trace?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “Will you check the mail? There might be a letter from my mother. Or Lillian.” He nodded and went on.

  She picked up a stick of cerulean blue from the wooden box of pastel chalk open on the wooden chair arm and began to darken the underbranches of the far trees, her glance moving quickly from paper to mountain and back again.

  Pine needles scrunched on the hillside. This time it was Annie, her long strides covering the ground, brown hair swaying, her yellow sweatshirt hung around her shoulders and bouncing against her dark jersey.

  She stepped onto the porch. “Where’s everybody?”

  “Dad’s found an academic colleague. They’re talking shop.” Annie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Doesn’t he ever quit work?”

  Laura lifted her shoulders. “Who knows?” She went on, “Bart and Philip are hunting rocks. Bart said to tell you he’d still like to ride this afternoon.”

  Annie g
lanced down the hill toward the stable. “You can come if you want?” It was a question, but Annie didn’t wait for an answer. She leaned over to examine Laura’s work. “Nice,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Annie moved toward the door. “I came up to change. I’m going to swim with Roger, or at least lie in the sun”—she looked toward the sky—“if it stays out, that is.”

  “Dad and I are going into town. Anything you want?”

  “You might get me the new Seventeen. And some shampoo.” Annie went inside.

  Laura breathed in the smell of piney woods. Riding? She might try it while they were here. Annie was always urging her to new adventures—like the Ferris wheel they’d gone on together last summer. “C’mon, Mom.” She had demurred, then gone. High in the air, at the top of the circle, the wheel stopping and starting every several feet to let on new riders, she had suddenly panicked and covered her face with her hands. Annie laughed, touched her arm. “Open your eyes, Mom!”

  The screen door opened and Annie came back out. “Is this all right? My new one’s still wet.” She was wearing last year’s bathing suit, a lavender bikini she had made herself. It was cut lower in front than her new suit. A triangle of white skin dipped deeply into the cleavage of her breasts.

  “It looks pretty seductive,” Laura said. “You look gorgeous.”

  Annie looked down at her body. “Me? Actually, I’m fat.” She leaned over and took the muscle of her thigh between finger and thumb. “Look at that. Flab!”

  “I know,” Laura said. “I don’t know how you live with yourself, looking so awful.”

  Annie looked at her fondly. “Well, anyway, I’ll get a shirt. The air’s cool.”

  She went in the cabin and came out, her rose-colored gauze shirt buttoned to the start of her tan. “That better?”