Will and Jace sat in a peaceful quiet and went home to study more of Romans while I drove to Klein’s to pick up something for lunch. Of course, it took me an hour and a half because I took the extremely long way home. I managed to steer clear of Gary and Mary Andrews’s house. I did.
* * *
For some reason, Will let me sleep in. He left a note on the counter and headed next door to help Jolly with his art school assignment.
So I threw on some sweats from the old days and am now sitting in a special spot I always hope and pray no one else knows about. Many decades ago in the woods to the east of our house, an old lime kiln was carved into a hill. I keep meaning to find out the purpose of lime kilns, but so far I keep forgetting to look it up. But I love sitting in the bowl of land that cradles it, and I know that at one time people came here for one reason or another to do that lime kiln sort of thing.
I spread out a blanket and lie down on my back, trying to summon up a picture of what life was like around here a century ago. Slower, kinder, more intimate with nature and people. Harder? Perhaps.
A June morning shouldn’t be this chilly. But it rained last night after I turned out the light. Rained and rained and rained, washing away the heat, the humidity, the dust. It is stark. It is blue. It is clear. Simple.
I miss my father, his whiskey-voiced words, his gentle spirit, his gratitude for life’s inherent blessings.
* * *
My dad used to bring me to Loch Raven Dam, and we’d watch the waters of the Gunpowder River flow over the graceful cement curve and out of the reservoir. Some evenings when the weather was nice, just he and I would drive out that way in his old Barracuda. I loved that car. We’d park across the road and I’d hold his hand as we crossed the street to the dam. My father had rough hands. Always warm. He loved to doodle when he was talking on the phone.
Carp the size of French poodles used to swim around behind that dam, and from the observation platform I’d throw bread in so those ugly fish might live to see another ugly day. I loved feeding those fish that seemed excited about a crust or two of stale bread.
I often think about the conversations my father and I had—Dad, the local history buff.
“There are towns buried beneath these waters, Heather,” he said one day, forearms resting on the wrought iron railing, gray eyes looking out over deep waters.
I think I was about seven when he first told me.
“They built the dam, poured the cement, and unfortunately, at least from what I’ve heard, there’s a worker buried in there.”
“Oh no!”
“It always seems to happen when they’re pouring the cement for dams, Heather. Somebody invariably loses their balance and falls in. Quite a few are buried in the Hoover Dam, if I recall correctly.” And he put his hand over mine and squeezed a bit of comfort into my bones.
Looking back now, I realize there’s metaphorical significance to this. How somebody always has to suffer so humankind can move forward. It feels so fallen.
Dad kept on with his story. “Once the dam was completed and they rerouted the river back to its original course, the water began to collect and rise. It took awhile to fill up the valley, but eventually it covered these towns up completely, and there they lie.”
“Are there bodies still down there?” I asked him. I remember feeling the heat beneath my hat. It was cold that day, and he remembered earlier to tell me not to forget my mittens. I curled them around the railing.
He laughed a little. “Oh no, Heather. The people got plenty of warning. They were paid by the county for their property and they relocated. But”—he leaned forward, and his eyes sparkled like they did when he was up to something—“some people say that if the water flows just perfectly and you’re standing in just the right place, you can hear a church bell ringing.”
“A church bell. In the water!”
“Yes. Maybe someday you’ll hear it.”
And I’ve been listening for it ever since. Maybe someday, here on my hill above the waters, I’ll hear the church bell calling to me.
Nobody knows this, but my father’s ashes are in a container in an old hat box in my closet. He somehow would have understood my confusion these days. Dad understood the world was sometimes wonderful, sometimes frightening, but always broad in scope and wide open with possibility.
* * *
“Mom?”
I open my eyes, shielding them against the sunlight. Drat. “Will?”
He appears through the brush. “What are you doing here?”
“Just thinking.” I sit up.
“Don’t you love this spot?” He plops right down on my private blanket like he owns it or something. “It’s my favorite place on the property.” He lays his head in my lap.
Well, maybe it’s okay if it’s just him and me. “Mine too.”
“Really?” He looks up into my face. “I thought I was the only one who knew about this place.”
“Me too.”
And it’s good.
“Do you know what a limestone kiln did?” I ask him.
“I looked that up awhile ago. They’d burn limestone at a really high heat and ended up using the stuff that resulted to make plaster and mortar and stuff.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“Yeah. Kinda strange that stone can be burned like that. I mean, who’d want plaster when you can have stone?”
“Plaster’s easier to mold, and bricks without mortar are pretty useless.”
He closes his gray eyes against the sun and folds his hands over his stomach. “Yeah. Don’t ever go inside there, Mom. It could all come down on you.”
“Thanks for the good advice.” I keep quiet about the fact that I’ve been in there many times.
It’s a pretty sad day when your fifteen-year-old is smarter than you are. I touch his hands, running a finger over the protruding knuckles. They were baby hands yesterday, little balloon digits, dimpled and supple. Dimpled and supple and sweet.
TEN
Lark always answers on the first ring, and I’m not sure how she does it with such dependability. She completes most of her foundation work from home and seems to be able to remember to take the cordless phone with her from room to room, unless, of course, there are phones in every room in that house on Greenway.
She’s glad to hear from me. I can tell this because she doesn’t ask me to get to my point even though, this time, I do have one. I’ve given up, you see, and figure I it owe to myself and Jace to at least see what’s going on down there at the Hotel and not just throw a check at the problem.
The impish portion of me wants to prove to him I’m more than what he thinks I am, thank you, Mr. Hospital Ship.
I watch Will from my bedroom window as he and Jolly mulch the flower beds near the pool. “I’m calling for a specific reason, Lark. Do you know about Sister Jerusha and her hotel down somewhere off of North Avenue?”
“I’ve heard of her. Never been there, though. She’s one of the Sisters of Charity, I believe.”
“Jace and I were over there the other night. We got lost—okay, I got lost—and ended up getting a tour of her place.”
“So what’s this got to do with me?”
“There’s something special going on there. I was wondering if you’d like me to come pick you up tomorrow; we can go out to lunch and then see the Hotel.”
“It’s a sad place, isn’t it? I hear it in your voice.”
I grip the phone and swallow. Jolly hands Will a rake. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were there.”
“Okay. What time?”
Lark would outlaw crowds if she could. “How about eleven? We can eat early and then go over.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Outside, Will says something, and Jolly begins to laugh, shakes his head, and lays a bony brown hand on my son’s shoulder. I open the cupboard after hanging up the phone. Look at all those plates in various colors. Three sets, actually. Not one all-white plate in th
e bunch. Well, that’s going to change too.
I gather up the old sheets, towels, and comforters and throw them in the back of the truck to take to the Hotel tomorrow. Maybe soon I can find nice white plates and take my old stuff down there too. Just white plates, a fresh surface every time, the food itself a lovely sight.
* * *
I don’t know why excitement dances around inside me like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but for some reason, I can’t wait to get back down to the Hotel. When Jace sees me doing this, he’ll open up and tell me about the doings of Bonnie Reynolds and Co.
So I set out to bake a cake. A full-figured cake for the “clients” at the Hotel. And I’m going to decorate it too; diverse colors, bright as a populated beachfront, on chocolate icing maybe.
I open my favorite cookbook, Let Them Eat Cake, pour myself another mug of coffee, and start to flip through as I sip.
Devil’s food. A family favorite.
Hot milk cake. Fabulous.
Lemon chiffon. I think I hear the Hallelujah Chorus.
So why pick? I’ll make one of each.
Will slides into the kitchen on the wood floors, socks grayer than old wash water. Why he doesn’t go barefoot like the rest of us is beyond my understanding, but Will is just Will and it rarely occurs to him to be anybody else. “What’re you doing, Mom?”
“Gagging at the sight of those socks.”
“No, really.”
“Making up a grocery list for cake baking.” I give him the scoop.
“Okay, you definitely need to do a chocolate mousse cake while you’re at it. Hey!” He opens the fridge. “Can I get Jolly to come over and help? I think he’d like that. He was crying again yesterday when he didn’t know I was looking.”
“Sure. Go on over.”
Will grabs a small plastic container of orange, well, liquid stuff, really, and pops it open. “What time?” He chugs the drink.
“I just need to run up to Klein’s to get the ingredients. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes.”
“I’ll get him. Hey, he’s a pretty good sketcher too. You should see his bunnies. And I taught him how to do a killer robot.”
I’ve got to admit it, Will draws great robots.
An hour later, both ovens heating up, Will and Jolly hack up baking chocolate squares and separate eggs.
“You’re doing a good job there on those eggs, Jolly. I’m impressed.” I begin measuring cake flour into four separate mixing bowls, and my hand will ache tonight after all this sifting.
“You know how Helen was on her baking days.”
“I liked her.” Will inflicts upon us the weird tongue motion he commits whenever he’s concentrating on something like cutting or drawing or sculpting, and quite frankly, the face frightens me and I always hope and pray he doesn’t do it in school but don’t see how he could possibly avoid it.
“Everybody liked Helen,” I say.
Jolly looks up. “That’s the truth, Heather. I don’t know of one person who didn’t like Helen, and that’s a fact.”
Wish I could say the same about myself.
The little gray house with the diamond door comes to mind, and Mary Andrews’s hair blows around all knotty inside my skull. I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she hate me like she should, like I hate Ronnie Legermin? And if I hate him, does that prove I’m better than I was way back when, when demanding the social upper hand was more important than anything else?
I can’t believe what I said to her, what I did. I can’t believe I was so cruel.
“Almost done with that chocolate, Will?”
“Yep.”
Jolly pushes two bowls before me, one containing egg yolks and the other egg whites. “Mind if I make us a little coffee?”
“Not one bit. We can sip and talk while the cakes are baking.”
Jolly stands with hands on hips before the coffeemaker. “Now how in the world do you use the likes of this?”
Will jumps right in.
Fifteen minutes later after he takes a sip, Jolly declares, “I think I’m going to get me one of those things. Will, want to head over to . . .” He looks up at me. “Now where would I get a coffeemaker like this?”
Will pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I know where to go. You ever been to Target?”
“Well, now. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Oh, you’re gonna love this place, Mr. Jolly. They have video games and even gardening tools.”
“That so?”
I’m watching something special right now: a fifteen-year-old boy saving the life of a seventy-some-year-old man. Tell me God doesn’t care.
* * *
The cakes are perfect. Almost. The 13 x 9 lemon chiffon now measures 9 x 9 because I lopped off an end to send home with Jolly. Will and I expressed ourselves in whatever way we saw fit, employing every last decorating tip and dye I own.
I tell Will about the Hotel. He wants to go to lunch too. Big surprise there.
“Oh yeah. Carmen called, Mom. She asked if you’d do the decorations for the freshman welcome dinner at school. She said to call back if it was no; if she didn’t hear from you, she’d figure it was a yes. Then she went into a big spiel about you calling her back to get the color scheme, the theme, and something else. But I can’t remember what it was. Cost maybe?”
“So much for not calling back.”
“Yeah. She’s a little high-strung, isn’t she?”
“You think?”
I call her and get the details. Mercy—Carmen and her themes. We’re going with a tiki party, and they’ll give away the centerpieces to the new parents. Like these people need more junk.
Next call, the administrator of the school.
I look to the left and to the right. I’m not sure where Will is, but just in case, I tuck myself into the coat closet and shut the door. I crouch down at the end of the coats, leaning up against the wall, cupping the mouthpiece with my hand. “I have something I need to discuss, Mr. Maddock.”
“Yes, Mrs. Curridge?”
“Have there been many complaints about Ronnie Legermin?”
“A few. Why?”
“Apparently he was giving Will, well . . . wedgies . . . almost every day last year. I just found out about it.”
“Oh my!”
“I know. Is there anything we can do?”
“Certainly. I can’t go into detail, but as I said, you’re not the first to complain.”
“And it won’t come back onto Will at all, will it?”
“I’ll do my best to protect him. But if it comes down to his father demanding the evidence, Will may have to come in and see me.”
I grip the phone and crush it to my ear. “You don’t think they’d retaliate with anything violent, do you?”
“No, Mrs. Curridge. Are you aware of Ronnie’s situation?”
“Not really.”
“His father’s raising him on his own. His mother died years ago.”
Oh great. Just great.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s one of the reasons we were trying to give him a break.” He sighs. “But if he’s being physical . . . Well, you know as well as any other parent at St. Matthews that violence is something we simply do not tolerate.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
Great. A boy without a mother. Life is never straightforward, is it?
I slip out of the closet and find Will in his room working on a watercolor. “Do you know about Ronnie Legermin’s home situation?”
“Duh, Mom.”
“Okay. I get it.” I sit on his bed. “How do you stand it, though, even if you do feel sorry for him?”
“First of all, the guy’s, like, four times the size of me. I really don’t have a choice. It’s the other things that keep me from hating him.
Not that I like the guy or anything. He’s still a jerk.”
So okay.
I won’t call Mr. Maddock back, though. Let the chips fall where they may.
Is that wrong?
&nbs
p; I call Laney to arrange for Nicola to come spend the day later on in the week. So that’s all set. After coordinating the necessary arrangements, I ask her about social upper hands. I’ve been thinking about that a lot the past few hours.
“What do you think, Laney? It just changes appearance when we’re older?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Heather.”
“Well, I was part of the cool crowd during a large part of my schooling. We worked hard to keep that upper hand, doing what it took to feel good about ourselves, be the best. Whatever that was.”
“Okay, I’m tracking now.”
“So as an adult, how does that look? Is it the nice car, the big house, the great clothes, the good schools? Is that the same thing, really? Only we let our stuff, our ability to travel and spend a fortune on our kids’ education, speak for us?”
She’s quiet.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Uh, Heather, do you realize if I say yes what it is I’m saying to you?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I tend to think yes.”
“Well, that could be,” she says. “But honestly, I think people accumulate for different reasons. I don’t know what yours is. And it could be a lot of reasons thrown together. Only you can say for sure.”
“You’re right.”
We ring off and I wonder. I guess the only way to find out would be to start getting rid of stuff. Then I’d know for sure.
Okay, that’s definitely something to think about tomorrow. Or the day after that.
* * *
Will and I stand on the pathway between our house and Jolly’s. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans into me; the golden afternoon sun, warm and glowing like a welcome-home window in the dark clouds surrounding it, casts a vast circle upon the gray waters.
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 34
