Return to Appleton

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I’ll run into Sam’s and have him make us something. You can change if you want. You’re kind of dressed up.”

  Gloria had made a special effort to dress nicely for her trip to Willow Bend, mostly to please her mother. But Cutter was right, her black linen slacks and gray cardigan were far too dressy for the fishing hole. “Okay. How about we meet outside? Your car or mine?”

  “Mine.” The way Cutter said it didn’t leave any room for argument.

  This was more like the Cutter she was used to—far too pushy for her taste.

  It was a perfect Indian summer day. The cloudless sky was the color of Grandma Quinn’s favorite blue dress, the dress she claimed made her feel twenty years younger every time she wore it. And though the air was cool and crisp, the overhead sun coated everything with a happy glow that was so contagious you couldn’t help feeling happy yourself.

  Gloria rode with the window down and let the wind claw her hair into a tangle. She felt relaxed in her gray sweats, and her fluttering hair gave her a sense of adventure—and a slight feeling of rebellion too, probably because she was going to while away the afternoon instead of doing the sensible, needful thing of cleaning her apartment.

  Sitting beside her, Cutter drove without a word. The sandwiches from Sam Hidel’s lay between them.

  As they turned down the Old Post Road and headed in the direction of Clive McGreedy’s farm, Gloria was reminded of Cutter’s many recent kindnesses: the car he bought for her and was letting her pay off in small installments, his offer to go into the printing business as a silent partner just so she could afford to buy Wanda and Paul’s shop, and today, his offer to let Tracy come back to work at Medical Data. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the sun or the warmth of his kindness that made her suddenly feel so warm toward him, but she did.

  “Thanks for your willingness to take Tracy back. I really appreciate it. Sometimes you can be so nice.”

  “Sometimes?”

  Gloria laughed. “Yes, sometimes. Of course, I don’t know if I can really chalk this one up to kindness, since you’ve always had a crush on Tracy.”

  Cutter’s eyebrows made Vs over his dark russet eyes, and his lips tightened as thought he was suppressing a laugh. “Whatever makes you say that?”

  “The valentine—that big box of Whitman’s you left on Tracy’s porch when we were in eighth grade. Tracy must have gotten half a dozen boxes that year.”

  “The valentine …” Cutter’s face turned red. “Tracy thought that was for her?”

  “Well, naturally. What else could she think?”

  “But her name wasn’t on the note.”

  “What note? There wasn’t any note. I was there when she found it. And the only reason we even knew it was from you was because Tracy’s mother saw you leave it.”

  “There was a note. I left it on top of the box … Guess the wind got it. That’s what I get for not using tape.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t for Tracy, who was it for?” Gloria leaned her back against the car door, facing Cutter.

  “It was for you, Gloria.” Cutter looked at her as if she had just arrived from Mars. “Who do you think?” He pulled the car to a stop, nose pointing toward Spoon Lake, which stretched out in front of them for over two miles and got its name from its elongated shape. They were only a mile from Clive’s farm and only a quarter of a mile from the old smokehouse. Cutter gathered the sandwiches and two bottles of soda, gave Gloria another strange look, and got out.

  Gloria lagged behind. She was still thinking about what Cutter had said. In all her life she had never gotten a valentine from a boy, but now Cutter was telling her she had. And from someone she had loathed and despised as a child. It seemed she had never really known him at all. It also seemed both silly and sad.

  She watched Cutter pick a spot near the lake, shaded by a giant maple, and sit down. She took her time following, feeling upset and suddenly uncomfortable in his presence.

  Why, for heaven’s sake? The man’s already told you he loves you.

  She had never known what to make of his declaration. There was a part of her that had dismissed it as more of Cutter’s mockery, his joking at her expense. And as long as that part held, she was free to dismiss his feelings completely. At least on that level, the love level. Now, suddenly, it came to her as clearly as the sun skipping across the water: This was no joke. Cutter had meant what he said.

  She eased herself down beside him, then picked up the wrapped tuna sandwich he had left on the grass for her, and removed the paper. “Well … thanks for the valentine. It was good. Tracy and I shared the whole box—she ate the top layer and I ate the bottom—so I did get some of it.”

  “I suppose it was best you didn’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Would you have eaten it if you had?”

  “Probably not.” They both laughed. “So … what other things did you do that I don’t know about?”

  Cutter removed the wrapper from his ham-and-cheese and rolled the paper into a ball. “That time my friends and I locked you and Tracy in the old smokehouse—well, I left my friends and doubled back so I could make sure you got out all right.”

  “We were in that dark, dirty smokehouse for three hours! It took us all that time to dig out the back.”

  “I know.”

  “I was terrified it was going to collapse on us.”

  “So was I.”

  Gloria eyed the dark, broad man who suddenly seemed like a stranger. She really didn’t know him at all. “What else?” she said, fiddling with her sandwich wrapper. “What else don’t I know about you?”

  “That bird of yours, with the broken wing that everyone thought I killed? I didn’t. Agnes Keller did. Oh, not on purpose. She found the box in the laundry room where I had put it and was afraid the bird would get out and upset Virginia, so she poked holes in the box for air and put a bath towel over the top. I don’t know how it happened, but the towel fell into the box and smothered the bird. I felt terrible. Really terrible. After all, I did steal it. And I was afraid of facing you and telling you what really happened.”

  “Afraid? Of me. Cutter, you were never afraid of anyone.”

  Cutter looked out over the blue, glistening water. The sun slicing through the overhead branches made his hair shimmer like a shampoo commercial. “I was afraid of you. Still am.”

  Gloria couldn’t believe her ears. “But why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I guess a guy’s always a little afraid of a girl he loves but who doesn’t love him.”

  Gloria stretched her legs out on the dry grass. “Anything else?”

  “Remember when I took you to the senior prom and—”

  “You didn’t take me, Cutter; you were coerced by your mother, who was pressured by mine.”

  Cutter laughed as he twisted his Appleton High ring around his finger. “No. Virginia didn’t need any pressuring. She’s always liked you. Anyway … I had planned on giving you my high school ring that night, only—”

  “Impossible! You acted like a beast! You left me sitting in a chair against the wall like some discarded coat and proceeded to dance with every girl in the room.”

  “I was trying to make you jealous.”

  “You are, without doubt, the most annoying, irrational, inscrutable man I’ve ever known, and—”

  “I guess that’s why you walked out on me that night, left me flat.”

  “And … you know absolutely zero about women.”

  Cutter raked one hand through the grass. “Obviously.”

  “But you have a decent side too. Do you want to tell Tracy about the job at Medical Data, or should I?”

  “You can.”

  The two sat in silence for a long time, until Cutter’s voice broke it. “The whole town’s talking about Wanda and Paul selling their place. And everyone knows they’ve asked you to buy it. What are you going to do?”

  “Mr. Hotchkins says I need a minimum of sixteen thousand. And I don’t have it.”r />
  “You know where you can get it.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’d rather miss out on an opportunity that you’d love rather than ask me?”

  “Yes.” Until this moment, Gloria had still been struggling with the issue.

  “Why?”

  “Because, under the circumstances, I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you.”

  “See. That’s where you and I are different. If the roles were reversed, I’d take your money in a heartbeat.”

  Gloria brushed sandwich crumbs from her sweatshirt. “That’s exactly why the roles aren’t reversed.”

  Gloria raced up the dilapidated steps and noticed, as she banged loudly on the paint-peeling door, that the old screen Nick Cervantes had nearly ripped off its hinges had been replaced. Oh, Tracy, please be home. Gloria could hardly wait to tell her the good news. Hopefully, Tracy hadn’t left for O’Riley’s Pub. Gloria had raced here right after Cutter had dropped her off. If she was in time, Tracy could give her notice tonight and be done with that bartending job.

  Gloria tired of banging on the door and rang the bell. Just as the familiar strain of the 1812 Overture was about to play for the third time, the door suddenly flew open, and Tracy stood in front of her. She wore black skin-tight pants, a white long-sleeve cotton shirt and a black vest that was only partially buttoned.

  “Oh … hey, Gloria. I was just on my way to work. Like my outfit? Gary has us dress up on Saturday nights. Says it makes the place more sophisticated. Brings in a better class of clientele.” She bent closer. “Just a bunch of hooey. The same crowd comes every Saturday, and after a few drinks they don’t care what you’re wearing. Gary’s thinking of hiring some dancers to dance on top of the bar. Thinks it’ll beef up business. But I don’t think it’ll do much, unless they’re strippers, and Gary says he doesn’t want to get into that. Still, he asked me if I’d be interested. Dancing, I mean. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  Gloria tried not to frown. “I’ve got great news. Cutter will give you your old job back.”

  Tracy stepped out onto the stoop, making it too crowded and forcing Gloria to reposition herself on the lower step. “You asked the Monkey to hire me?”

  Gloria didn’t answer.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Tracy continued, as if Gloria had responded in the affirmative. “You think I’d work for him again? The creep. No way. He had his chance. And he blew it. I’ve got my pride, Gloria. Even if you don’t.”

  “But … surely you don’t want to work at O’Riley’s for the rest of your life?”

  “Of course not. Another month and I’m outta here. Already told Gary. That’s when this new casino opens in Vegas, and they’re hiring like crazy. Me and Nicky already landed jobs there. Good jobs too, with good pay.”

  For a moment Gloria was speechless. Oh, God, it can’t be true.

  “Nicky’s gonna do valet parking.”

  “What about his probation?”

  Tracy flipped her long red hair over her shoulder and jutted her chin. “His probation is over in two months. I’ll go first, then he’ll meet me. His cousin’s already found us a place to stay, and—”

  “And what will your job be?”

  “Well … cocktail waitress … but that’s only temporary, until they see what I can do, until they see my potential and place me in the right spot.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know … yet.” Tracy walked back into the house, letting the new screen door bang shut between them. Through the mesh, Gloria saw worry lines crease Tracy’s forehead. “There’s always something opening up for a bright, enterprising person. I’m not going to be a cocktail waitress forever.”

  “But if you stay here, in two years you could be running telemarketing.”

  “Maybe, if that’s what I wanted.”

  “It used to be.”

  “Yeah, and you used to hate Cutter Press. Things change, kiddo. Don’t they?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t want to buy the place?”

  Gloria watched Wanda shove the box of electrostatic solution across the floor with her foot until it whacked against the wall and stopped. There was something in Wanda’s action that made Gloria wonder if Wanda didn’t wish the box were Gloria’s head—as in the proverbial knocking sense into it.

  “How could you not want to buy it? This place is perfect for you. Paul and I weren’t much older than you when we started this business. It’s been good to us, and it’ll be good to you too.”

  “No use, Wanda. I can’t come up with the sixteen thousand Mr. Hotchkins says I need.”

  “That old fuddy-duddy? About time he retired too and let someone with more imagination take over. Today’s bankers are always coming up with new ways to give you money—balloon loans, bridge financing, debentures—unless, of course, they’re from the Stone Age, like Hotchkins.”

  “Wanda, really. He was very kind, and he spent a lot of time trying to make the numbers add up, but they don’t, so that’s that.”

  “So that’s that? No way. No, sir. You’re not giving up so easily. You go back to the drawing board and think some more. And then you come back with the right answer. I’ll give you another week. Paul and I can wait one more week.”

  “Wanda—”

  “One more week!” Wanda gave the electrostatic solution box another kick, making Gloria cringe and return to her keyboard.

  Gloria climbed one step at a time, stopping periodically as if at a rest station. The creaking stairs of the old Victorian seemed longer tonight, and more than once, she wished she could turn around. But how could she disappoint Virginia? It was Tuesday night. She was expected. Work exhaustion had little meaning to a dying woman, and Gloria wouldn’t use it as an excuse.

  The last two steps felt like mountains, and she stopped one more time, at the landing. The pause and the height gave Gloria a sense of the house, and for the first time it occurred to her that a house, like a person, had its own personality. This one was gloomy, depressing. It was the house where Cutter had grown up, a house of hushed voices and dark-paneled walls and dark, velvet-covered windows that kept out the fresh air and seemed to stifle the very oxygen in your lungs, making you want to gasp.

  Suffocating darkness. Such suffocating darkness.

  She suddenly felt kinder toward Cutter. Some of this darkness and suffocation had naturally rubbed off on him. How could a child grow up happy in a place like this?

  “Hi, Virginia,” Gloria said, even before entering the room. She needed to hear a voice, even if it was her own. Through the partially opened door, she saw a shriveled form reading in bed and recognized the deep-cranberry-colored book as the NIV she had given Virginia. Her heart skipped with delight. It was the only delight she had felt since entering the house. She paused one final time and prayed silently for God to open Virginia’s heart, then slowly pushed the door. Virginia looked up, then without a word, returned to her book.

  “I’m glad to see you’re reading Luke. How far did you get?”

  “Clear through the whole twenty-four chapters.” Virginia’s smug look told Gloria she was proud of her accomplishment and expected to be praised.

  “Teachers must have loved you,” Gloria said when she reached the bedside. Again the feeling of delight. Virginia’s hair glistened from a recent shampoo. And even from a standing position, Gloria could smell the unmistakable fragrance of Amarige. Something had invigorated Virginia, rekindled her desire to perform the simple tasks of washing hair and body. Maybe it was Luke.

  Gloria peered down at the open Bible perched on Virginia’s lap and saw it was turned to the parable of the rich fool. “So, what do you think?”

  Virginia shook her head. “I don’t know … Some of it’s a little unsettling. Like this story.” She poked the open page with her finger. “This farmer worked hard and reaped a bumper crop and needed bigger barns to store it. So he goes ahead and builds himself some. Now, what’s wrong with that? It soun
ds reasonable enough. Yet God is ticked off and calls him a fool and tells him he’s going to die that very night. I don’t get it, Gloria. What did God want him to do? Be a bum? Lie around and do nothing? Why should God be mad because this guy worked hard all his life and got rich in the process?”

  Gloria brushed a stray wisp of gray hair from Virginia’s forehead and wondered if faith, perhaps as fragile as the filament of Virginia’s hair, was about to take root in the aging heart. She sat down on the bed. “It’s not about working hard and getting rich. It’s about greed and chasing after all the wrong things. Look farther down and read what it says.”

  “‘This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich toward God.’“ Virginia scrunched her face—driving the crow’s feet around her eyes deeper, until they looked like rows of scars. “I … I always tried to work hard, set a good example for my son. Doesn’t that count?”

  “I’m convinced that most of the things we do in life are wood, hay, and stubble—all useless—and will be burned when tried by our King and Judge, because our reference point is wrong.” Gloria watched Virginia clench her fists. “Most of the time we’re following our own agenda, doing what’s right in our own eyes instead of consulting God and seeing what He would have us do.”

  “So … you’re saying I’m a failure; is that it?” Virginia’s head dropped back against the pillows, her mouth an angry line. “You’re saying my life has been meaningless. Just so much … what did you call it? Stubble? Wood, hay?”

  “I’m saying you need to come to Jesus. You need to put your treasure where it really counts.”

  “Before … it’s too late?” Virginia’s eyes suddenly looked like the large black buttons on Gloria’s trench coat.