Return to Appleton

by Sylvia Bambola

  Spiritual pride. She had never felt it before. It was alien and dark and made her feel rotten inside. After the prayer meeting, she would have gladly pried open her chest, reached inside, and torn out the pride if she could. Ripped it out like the weed it was. She had left Appleton a spiritual baby and returned, it seemed, a spiritual baby.

  How far she still had to go! A lifetime wasn’t long enough for Jesus to accomplish His will in her. She had come back to Appleton for reconciliation, because she knew that’s what He wanted. What made her think it would be a cakewalk?

  With a heavy heart, she kissed and hugged everyone, then went outside into the darkness and headed toward her bike, wishing she had just stayed home and vegged out on the couch.

  Right from the start, Gloria knew someone was following her. First there was that long shadow near the rectory parking lot that moved in her direction as soon as she reached her bike. Then footsteps—heavy, clumping footsteps that could only belong to a man. And finally, running, when she mounted her bike and sped away.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as her legs pedaled faster and faster. What if the guy had a car? She listened for the sound of an engine, for tires on the asphalt behind her, then whipped her head around to give her eyes a chance to detect what her ears couldn’t.

  But she saw only darkness. All the way home she continued listening, but heard only the screech of an owl, the slapping of wind against her body, and the click click click of her thin twenty-six-inch, hook-edge rim tires. And even when she ducked behind Sam Hidel’s Grocery to her apartment, got off her bike, and raced to her door and opened it, she listened.

  Quickly, she closed and locked the door. This was silly. No one was out there. She was letting her imagination run wild. Her breath came in short, spastic gasps as the face of Santa Claus suddenly flashed before her eyes. She had to get a grip. She had to forget about that poor dead man in the underbrush.

  Gloria sat in front of her new HP, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she worked on the posters commissioned by Charlie Axlerod on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce. She knew her early-bird special would get him. Some people said Charlie still had the first dollar he’d ever made. But that was just a spiteful remark from those of the tax-and-spend persuasion in town. Charlie was a generous man, but frugal as all get-out when it came to someone else’s money.

  She felt much better today. Last night, she had spent over an hour taking all those dark thoughts captive and making them obedient to Christ. Scripture told her she had not been given a spirit of fear but a sound mind, and it was time she started acting like it. When she finally went to bed, she slept like a log. And this morning when she woke up, the face she saw wasn’t Santa Claus’s but Grandma Quinn’s. Tonight, after work, she was going to peddle the five miles to Grandma’s house and stay as long as Grandma wanted her to, even if that meant she’d ride home in the dark.

  Cutter Press held the phone tightly against his ear with one hand and twirled a dart in the other. With a graceless motion, he hurled the dart, missing the board altogether. “What do you mean there’s something wrong with my mother?”

  “She hasn’t told you?”

  “No, Dr. Grant, she expects you to do that, as usual. So tell me, what’s wrong with her this time? A queasy stomach? Have I been a bad boy and given her indigestion again?”

  “I think you should talk to her and ask—”

  “I have no intention of talking to Virginia.”

  “She has forbidden me to say anything, so I must honor her wishes, but I strongly urge you to speak with her.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Doctor, why don’t I just run through a list of previously assumed illnesses and you can cough when I hit the right one. This way you can accomplish your objective without violating any doctor-patient confidentiality, and I can accomplish mine, which is ending this conversation as quickly as possible. So here goes: angina, diverticulitis, gallstones, kidney stones, hypertension, hypotension—”

  When the phone went dead, Cutter placed it in its cradle. That should keep Doc Grant from bothering him for a couple of weeks. Still … there was something in the doctor’s voice Cutter didn’t like. Some strain, some tension.

  Had Virginia really gone and gotten herself sick this time? Just to spite him?

  Geri Bickford let the door of Sam Hidel’s Grocery bang shut behind her as she stepped onto the sidewalk. One of these days Sam was going to modernize and get himself one of those automatic doors that slid open when you got close to it. She nodded politely to Ivy Gordon as she passed, thinking how that woman kept looking younger and younger every time she saw her. But Ivy would never have Geri’s looks, no matter how many plastic surgeries she had.

  Geri was sure that’s how Ivy was doing it—keeping that youthful look—with facelifts and tucks, even though everybody said no. Even Pearl Owens. And Pearl was always ready to spread the news when there was some. So maybe it wasn’t true. Still … Geri threw back her shoulders, tilted her chin upward, and headed for her car. Ivy would never have much looks to speak of.

  Three brown paper bags were strapped to Geri’s carrier, and she wheeled them across the street to the parking lot, feeling more irritated with each step. She supposed she shouldn’t think ill of Ivy—after all, Ivy was a good enough sort. Never went in for gossip. Not like some. Geri squeezed her shoulder blades together and tilted her chin higher. No, it wasn’t Ivy’s fault. Ivy had nothing to do with Geri’s bad mood. Nothing at all.

  But it did have everything to do with this Venus’s-flytrap of a town—a town that ate its own inhabitants alive. More and more it felt like Appleton was closing in on her. It was getting so she didn’t want to go anywhere. Not even to Sam’s. The embarrassment was just too great. She might as well go around with a big fat F on her back—for Failure.

  First, she had to endure the indignity of Gloria’s renting that disgusting little apartment in back of Sam’s. How Gloria could choose to live in a grungy little shack rather than in a nice, clean, spacious house was beyond her. Everybody had to be talking about it. A single daughter who preferred squalor to living with her mother cast doubts on that mother. It said something about Geri. At least, Geri was sure that’s how the townspeople saw it.

  And now, this new offense. Sam had some nerve discussing it right out in the open, right in front by the door so everyone could hear. Did she know that her mother had run up a rather large bill? Sam had asked, looking at her like she should just open her wallet and pay it right on the spot.

  Of course she knew. Sam had told her about it last month, and the month before that. “And what was it for?” she had asked, already knowing the answer because he had also told her that two months running—flour, sugar, eggs, raisins, oatmeal, and the like. Her mother must be baking like a fiend. Anyone passing 52 Elm Street could smell there was something in her oven.

  But who was eating all that stuff? Most of her mother’s friends were in nursing homes or in assisted living. So why was her mother running up bills at the grocery and baking for an army?

  Dementia. It was a sure sign of dementia. Her mother had been on the edge for years. That’s why Geri had tried so hard to keep Hannah and Gloria separated. A mother had a right to protect her young. Not that Gloria appreciated being protected.

  Geri pressed the automatic opener and popped the trunk of her car, then placed her three packages neatly inside. This situation couldn’t go on. Either she’d stop going to Sam Hidel’s or her mother would. She couldn’t have that crazy woman running around town embarrassing her.

  Crazy? Well, maybe that too. All that baking. All that wild singing at the top of her lungs—so loud that people across the street could hear. Her downright refusal to wear that little Freedom FS hearing aid Geri had spent so much money on. Her illogical insistence on maintaining that huge two-story house. Oh yes, it was beyond dementia. Beyond the normal old-age foibles. It was … loony. Geri was surer of that now than ever before.

  Her mother was crazy.

&nb
sp; Maybe it was time Hannah Quinn joined her friends in that nursing home.

  Gloria stood in the front entrance of the aging Victorian getting the life squeezed out of her by a pair of chubby arms. A full, round face, framed by gray hair pulled into a bun, beamed, like Gloria’s Eveready flashlight, with love. The aroma of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen. And the familiar ticktock of Grandma Quinn’s prized 1805 Whiteside clock drifted from the living room.

  Gloria was home.

  “My goodness, child, it’s wonderful to see you. I heard you were in town. Been expecting you.” Hannah Quinn released her granddaughter.

  Gloria smiled as she noticed the little molded flesh-colored object that sat in the concha of Grandma Quinn’s left ear. “You’re wearing your hearing aid.”

  “Figured one of these days you’d take it in your head to come traipsing out here and say hello. I wanted to be ready.”

  Gloria let Grandma Quinn enfold her in her soft, fleshy arms again and cover her cheeks with kisses. Oh, how she had missed those hugs and kisses!

  “Let’s take a look at you,” Grandma finally said, pushing Gloria from her and holding her at arm’s length. When Grandma squinted and moved her head this way and that, Gloria wondered if her cataracts had gotten worse.

  “My, how you’ve changed. You look … you look …” But Grandma Quinn didn’t finish, as though wanting to keep her observation to herself, and just led Gloria down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. The tired oak floor creaked beneath their feet and gave Gloria a sudden shudder of pleasure. Oh, how many times had she walked these boards!

  They passed the living room, and Gloria was surprised to see it cluttered with old newspapers. On the couch lay a pile of clothes needing to be folded. The small TV in the corner and the coffee table in the center of the room were covered with so much dust it almost looked like mold had grown over them.

  What happened? Grandma had always been as neat as a pin.

  When they got to the kitchen, Gloria took the chair Grandma offered and sat quietly waiting while Grandma hunted for her glasses—which were nothing more than tinted glass that helped keep down the glare. But Grandma swore they made her see better.

  Drawers banged shut, one after the other, as Grandma sifted through them. All the while, Gloria pretended not to notice. If Grandma was vain about anything, it was this. Grandma hated the hearing aid and the fact that she had subcapsular cataracts. She hated to admit that parts of her weren’t working as well as they used to. Actually, weren’t working nearly as well as they used to.

  Gloria scanned the kitchen as the drawers continued to open and close. It felt so good to be here. It was the place she had missed most in all of Appleton. She loved the smell of freshly baked cookies, the warmth of the oven, the familiar red gingham covering the window and chair cushions. She didn’t remember it being so messy, though. Or that big black smudge running the length of the wall behind the stove.

  “What happened to the wall, Grandma?”

  Grandma Quinn pulled a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from the drawer she had just ravaged and inspected them in the light. “Pfffff. I keep putting these silly things in the wrong place.” With the corner of her apron she cleaned the lenses, then put them on.

  “The wall, Grandma, what happened to it?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing.” Grandma Quinn flicked her hand in the air. Then she walked over to the table where Gloria sat. “Well, goodness gracious, look at you. So … so …” She turned partially to the side, lifted her apron, and used it to dab the perspiration from her forehead. Then she smoothed down her hair, tucking wisps of gray here and there into her bun. “And me, looking like something the cat dragged in.”

  “You look wonderful. Just wonderful. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you. There were times in Eckerd when I wanted to give up and come home, I think just to see your face, and for one of these.” Gloria rose and walked over to the counter and grabbed an oatmeal cookie off one of the cooling racks. “I can’t believe you’re still making them. And so many.” Gloria’s eyes scanned the countertop. There had to be at least five dozen cookies cooling.

  Grandma gave her a gentle swat on the backside, then shooed her back to her seat. “Never you mind about the number. I have uses for them. Tell me how you’ve been. And tell me all about Eckerd City and why you came back. I especially want to know why you came back. Honestly, pumpkin, I never expected you to.”

  “Neither did I.” Gloria bit into the cookie and tasted the raisins and oats and sugar and Grandma’s secret ingredient, shredded coconut. Nobody made oatmeal cookies like Grandma. How many times had she sat in Grandma’s kitchen and eaten so many of these her stomach ached? “I’ll tell you all about it, after you tell me what you thought when you first saw me. Your very first impression, and be honest.”

  “That’s a queer thing to ask. Why do you?”

  Gloria brushed crumbs from her mouth and shrugged. “I guess I want to know if you think I’ve changed.”

  “Gracious, child, you know you’ve changed. No need to ask. But … if you want to know what I was thinking, well … I was taken back by how much you suddenly reminded me of your mother.”

  Gloria spent almost an hour telling Grandma Quinn about Eckerd City, Harry Grizwald, Miss Dobson, Perth. Then another twenty minutes filling in the blanks regarding Tracy and her brother, Tucker. Finally, she told her how she believed God had called her back to Appleton for reconciliation.

  “That sounds like our Jesus, all right. Just the thing He’d ask someone to do. You think you’re up to it?”

  Gloria rose from her chair and headed for the counter to get another cookie. “Grandma, now look who’s asking the odd question. Jesus loves these people. And He’s put His love into my heart. He’s made me love them too.” And it was true. Jesus had done a miracle in her heart. It ached to make things right.

  To see reconciliation become a reality. But she also wanted Cutter and Tracy and her mother to find Jesus for themselves. She loved her mother more than she had ever loved her before. That went for Tracy too. But Cutter … well, she loved him because Jesus loved him, but she certainly didn’t like him.

  “Jesus has made me love these people,” Gloria repeated. “And I want to reach out to them with that love.”

  Grandma rose from her chair, wiped her hands on her apron, then walked slowly toward the counter. “Sometimes, child, love just isn’t enough.”

  Chapter Four

  GLORIA FELT LIKE A CHILD, standing beside her old red Schwinn and staring up at the freshly painted white Cape Cod with its window boxes full of geraniums. The green shutters were freshly painted too, and sprouted alongside each window like eyelashes, making the windows seem to return the stare. Hydrangea bushes hugged both sides of the stoop, and in front of these, short perennials, packed closely together, weaved a colorful ribbon between the hydrangea and the rye lawn. Surrounding it all was a three-foot-high white picket fence that for years had been able to keep out unwanted visitors but never the rabbits.

  She tried to draw encouragement from the gaily chirping robin in the nearby maple, but couldn’t, and just stood there as if her feet were Krazy Glued to the sidewalk.

  Finally, she stirred herself enough to kick the stand and rest her bike. How many times had she stood on this sidewalk in front of her house? Feeling like she did now? Not wanting to go in? She tapped the chrome handlebars. Why did the sight of this place still give her a sense of uneasiness, the kind one feels when going to the dentist after years of absence?

  Because more likely than not, it would be painful.

  She glanced up at the immense blue sky that went on forever, and at the white cotton-candy clouds that looked so close you were tempted to believe you could dive into them like a soft, comfy bed. She imagined the footstool of God being this beautiful and suddenly felt close to Jesus. This is why He had brought her all the way back from Eckerd. This is why He had poured all that love into her. There was no need to fear. He was wi
th her. She felt renewed strength. Maybe today was the day she’d tell Mother about Jesus. Tell her why she came back from Eckerd. She didn’t know what to say, exactly, but Jesus knew. He’d put the right words into her mouth.

  “Are you crazy?” Gloria shouted, her hand moving in an exasperated gesture and accidentally knocking over her mother’s Spode bud vase. The vase spun around in a circle on the table-top, spewing water everywhere. In seconds the vase had emptied, and water ran off the table edge onto the floor. A yellow rose, one Gloria knew came from her mother’s prize rose garden in the back, lay sprawled like a beached goldfish with its petals helplessly flopped in all directions.

  Now why had she said that?

  She could have been more tactful. Prayed before she opened her mouth. Given Jesus a chance to calm her down. But when her mother said those words, those awful words “nursing home,” Gloria forgot all about the love and patience of God.

  Her mother darted to the sink, looking wounded, and grabbed a sponge and bucket from the louver cabinet.

  “Let me do that.” Gloria tried to take the sponge, but her mother brushed her hand away, then frantically mopped up the water as if it were acid eating into her white-tiled tabletop and white-tiled floor.

  Trust Mother to always clean up the least important mess first.

  Gloria ran sweaty palms down her new cargo pants and walked over to the counter, giving her mother space. There was no use trying to stop her. Mother wouldn’t rest until everything was perfect. Again.