Cutter stood like a wax figure. Perspiration discolored his blue cobble crew around the armpits and down the middle of his back, making him look like he was melting. Gloria nudged him. When he didn’t respond, she grabbed his arm and pulled him along until they reached the bed. Dr. Grant and Agnes separated to make room for them. Geri Bickford held her ground. Somebody coughed. Someone else pushed against the bed, making it creak.
Then everyone focused on Virginia. The dying woman was propped on all sides by her customary five pillows. Her eyes were closed, her skin the color of a candlewick, her breathing barely detectable, but … there was a big smile on her face. Even in the best of times, Virginia Press rarely smiled. Gloria thought she had imagined it and looked again at the sagging jowls, the dry, partially cracked lips that curled upward like a tomato wedge. There was no mistaking it.
Virginia Press was smiling.
Dr. Grant put a hand on Cutter’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Cutter hesitated, then bent over the bed, touched his fingers to his mother’s cheek, then slowly sank down onto the bed beside her.
“We should leave them alone,” Gloria said.
Agnes and Dr. Grant nodded and moved away. Geri stood in place, rigid and unyielding as a sentry at Buckingham Palace. “I’m … afraid to leave,” she said when Gloria touched her arm.
“Cutter needs some time alone.”
Geri’s head swiveled backward as Gloria led her to the door. It was almost as if she dared not take her eyes off Virginia for fear of something happening. “I can’t believe this, Gloria,” Geri whispered. “I can’t believe I’m losing the best friend I’ve ever had.”
When they stepped into the hall, Gloria closed the door, and the three of them—she, her mother, and Agnes—held each other and cried. Dr. Grant stood off to the side, fingering his stethoscope and looking pained.
Five minutes later, Cutter emerged—his eyes moist as melon balls, his mouth twisted. “She’s gone,” he said, without a hint of emotion, as though implying his mother had gone out to the supermarket or to get her hair done at Rosie’s.
“I’m sorry.” Gloria reached for him, but he blew past her and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She didn’t follow.
“I want to see her one more time,” Geri said, streaks of black mascara paving her cheeks. She followed Dr. Grant into the bedroom. Then Agnes mumbled something about making everyone tea and disappeared downstairs. Now, standing alone on the landing, Gloria suddenly realized her primary feeling wasn’t one of sadness, though it too shared a chamber of her heart. No. What she felt was immense relief.
Thank you, Jesus, for saving Virginia in time.
Cutter Press sat by the old willow in the far corner of his backyard, shivering. He should have grabbed that coat Gloria had told him to get before dragging him to see Virginia. But maybe it wouldn’t have helped. He wasn’t sure if he shivered from the cold or from seeing Virginia go like that. Even now, the whole thing seemed more like an old Charlie Chaplin movie—a black-and-white, sad comedy. Only, he couldn’t rewind this one and play it again.
Here one day, gone the next. Wasn’t that the saying? Strange, but he’d never believed it applied to Virginia. She was the invincible Merrimack, complete with armor plating. She was going to live forever. Her “sickbed” had only been a tool of manipulation. Everyone knew that. So what happened?
Cutter wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling his anger mount. How many times had Virginia driven him to this tree? He could barely see it in the darkness, but every inch was familiar. It bore the marks of his past, traced his history through mirrored scars: the hollow just above his wrist was carved out after Sam Hidel caught him stealing those five Snickers, the nub to the right was the remains of the limb he broke when climbing it after he almost failed tenth-grade English. And the deeply grooved CP in front of him was carved after his principal had called Virginia, telling her Cutter was the worst disciplinary problem he had seen in years. After the call, Virginia had threatened to send Cutter to military school down south. He had carved his initials because he wanted to leave some proof that he belonged here. But these were only three out of a dozen or more marks, all etching a trail of pain.
This old tree held more secrets than the archives of the National Enquirer. And even now, even at the end, Virginia was able to send him here one last time. He didn’t think he’d ever forget that look on her face when she opened her eyes and saw him. Even now it made him shudder. He had never seen her eyes like that—liquid and soft, oozing motherly love. He cursed her under his breath. And why had she done that—taken his hand in hers and pressed her fingers into his palm? It used up every ounce of strength she had.
And her words … They were the worst of it. He’d never forgive her for saying them. Even now they rolled around in his head like steel balls in a pinball machine. It would take more than a six-pack of Heineken to stop the rolling. And he hated her for that. He couldn’t remember ever hating her more.
Why couldn’t she just pass into the netherworld without waking up? Why did she have to look at him like that and tell him she was sorry? Tell him she loved him? Why now, after all these years? He was so furious he could hardly think straight. It was just like Virginia to spend the last five minutes of her life acting like a real mother, just so Cutter could spend the rest of his realizing how much he would miss. Realizing how much he had been cheated.
Cutter bent closer to the tree, until his chest touched and he could fold his arms around it, just like he had done so many times before. And after cursing his mother one last time, he bowed his head and wept.
The funeral was simple—a reading of the Twenty-third Psalm by Charlie Axlerod at the gravesite, then finger sandwiches by Agnes Keller at the house. When the sandwiches disappeared, Agnes set out the ton of casseroles brought as offerings by sympathetic guests. Half the town showed up. And for over three hours Geri Bickford cooed, to anyone who would listen, which was basically only Agnes, about how much the town loved Virginia, and wasn’t this a nice tribute to a great lady?
Gloria’s opinion ran contrary. In her mind, the guests fell into one of three categories: obligated business associates, the curious who saw an opportunity to see the inside of the grand mansion normally closed to the public, and true mourners. Of the scores of people who filed through the house, only a handful fell into the last group.
Cutter put in an appearance at the gravesite and then again at the house. He shook hands and accepted condolences like an ambassador in a reception line—polite, dignified, and a bit standoffish. Then he disappeared for the rest of that day and three days more. No one in town saw him again until the reading of Virginia’s will.
Gloria’s hand trembled as it picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number. She let the phone ring and ring and ring until finally the answering machine came on and Cutter’s deep voice spewed out a short, crisp message. She hung up without a word.
Where was he? She’d been calling for two days. She had even driven past his house after she got it into her head that he had drunk himself into a stupor and lay passed out in his own vomit. But when she’d pulled up to the Tudor, there was no sign of Cutter’s black Saab anywhere.
Maybe he had gone out of town to really tie one on. Cutter could always drink with the best of them, but he had never been one to crawl into a bottle, to go on an all-out binge. But there was always a first time. Gloria knew Virginia’s death had left a big hole—bigger than Cutter was prepared for, bigger even than he would ever admit.
She felt her heart twist and turn as she pictured him somewhere in a bar full of strangers. One shouldn’t be with strangers at a time like this. Then her heart plummeted to her toes as she pictured him and his Saab in a ditch along a deserted road. If only she knew he was safe, then she wouldn’t worry so much.
Her hand reached for the phone, and before she could stop herself, she hit redial.
Gloria sat in an olive brocade Queen Anne chair next to her mother. Alongside he
r mother sat Agnes, then Dr. Grant, then Cutter, all in a semicircle facing the ornately carved antique cherry desk. Behind the desk sat Charlie Axlerod, attorney-at-law. In addition to his Chamber of Commerce duties and his bed-and-breakfast—which was mostly operated by his wife and a staff of two—he also had a thriving law practice that ran the gamut of divorce, real estate, tax advocacy, and wills, a combination that could only be possible in a town the size of Appleton. He had handled both Virginia’s personal and business matters.
“I, Virginia Bernadette Press, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament and do hereby revoke any and all other Wills and codicils heretofore made by me. I nominate and appoint Charles P. Axlerod as Executor of this …”
Gloria’s mind wandered as Charlie read the endless legalese of Virginia’s will, and she found herself leaning forward in her chair so she could get a glimpse of Cutter. She felt a strange, quiet pleasure in seeing him sitting safely in his straight-backed chair. And immense relief. Like everyone else in Appleton, she had not seen him for days. His neatly combed hair and heavily starched khakis and shirt didn’t fool her. Those plum-colored circles under his eyes told Gloria she had been right about him going on a binge. Obviously, it had been a rough few days. She wanted to go up to him, to ask him if he was all right and to tell him she had been worried, but mostly to smile into his dark-brown eyes and let him know that she was there for him. Instead, she sent up prayers on his behalf and was still praying when she heard her mother gasp.
“Twenty thousand! Did you hear that, Gloria? Virginia, God rest her soul, left you twenty thousand dollars!”
“Why?” she said, when her mother’s words penetrated.
“Gloria, really. That’s hardly a grateful attitude. Obviously, Virginia thought highly of you.”
Gloria shook her head. “I don’t understand.” She leaned over in order to see Cutter. “Is this all right with you?”
Cutter’s eyelids drooped with fatigue. “I’m happy for you, Gloria. I’m glad she did it.” Though his voice and face were somber, Gloria knew he meant it.
“Really, Gloria,” her mother huffed. “Surely when you got Charlie’s invitation to the reading you knew you had to be mentioned? What did you expect her to leave you?”
“The crystal perfume bottle I tried to steal on a dare.” She was rewarded by Cutter’s laugh.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” her mother protested. “You were kind to Virginia in her final weeks. She just wanted to repay you.”
And that was how all the gossip started.
“The town’s simply buzzing with the news,” Wanda said when Gloria showed up for work the next day. “Now that you’re a woman of means, maybe you’ll change your mind about buying the place.”
Gloria had already thought of that. So had several other people. Most people were happy for her. But there were some, like Pearl Owens, who mingled their congratulations with a snide, “Guess there’s no faster way to make a dollar than by caring for a rich dying woman.” The fact that Virginia had been so generous was what got most folks. Everyone knew how tight-fisted she’d been with money.
But Virginia had been generous with them all. To Geri she’d left her jewelry—worth untold thousands—to Agnes a 401k worth one hundred thousand, to Dr. Grant the deed to his office that she had held, marked “paid in full,” to Cutter everything else.
Overnight, Cutter was worth millions.
“No excuses left now, Little Miss Moneybags,” Wanda snorted. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know ASAP. I think Paul and I have been patient enough. I don’t think you should expect us to dangle on that string any longer.”
Gloria felt as though a hummingbird were beating against the inside of her chest. She had spent half the night thinking about this very thing. She hoped she didn’t appear overly excited. “Yes, you’ve been patient enough, Wanda. And yes, I’ve decided to buy the shop.”
Wanda’s shriek brought Paul running from the back. “What’s going on?” he said, breathlessly, and stopped when he saw the two women hugging.
“Say hello to the new owner of Appleton Printers,” Wanda returned, beaming.
Cutter stood in front of the refrigerator studying the assorted casseroles and wondering what he should have for lunch. He had not gone to work today. Nor was he likely to go tomorrow. He suspected it would be a few more days before he’d be ready to do that.
He stared at the collection of covered dishes cramming the refrigerator shelves. There was a large tuna casserole from Molly Brennan. A green bean casserole from Sandy Stewart. A baked bean and frankfurter casserole from Polly Ann Sharp. A pan of baked macaroni from Connie DeAlberto. A lamb casserole from Virginia Connors, beef stew from Elvira Howell. And chicken and rice from Linda Peterson. All of the eligible and most desperate women in Appleton. Other eligibles had baked cakes or cookies, except for Sadie Bellows and Gloria. Sadie sent a sympathy card with a picture tucked inside of her in nothing but her birthday suit. A note scribbled on the back of the picture said, “I can help you forget—for a hundred dollars.” And Gloria had sent one of those religious cards with the Twenty-third Psalm on the front and something about how God was with him in his time of sorrow. He would have liked it better if Gloria had sent a picture of herself tucked inside … with or without clothes. At least it would have been more personal.
He pulled out the chicken and rice, then closed the fridge with his foot. Dishes clanked as he retrieved a microwavable bowl from the cabinet. Then he scooped out a large spoonful of casserole and dumped it into the bowl. He shoved the bowl into the microwave, pressed the Express-2 button, and wondered, as he watched the bowl whirl around on a glass plate, if his brains were not getting nuked along with the food. He stepped to the side and thought about the rest of the casseroles in the refrigerator. One man couldn’t eat all that in a month.
What did these Lilliputian women think? They were feeding Gulliver?
You should be grateful, Press, for their kindness. But even as he pulled the steaming chicken and rice from the microwave, he couldn’t muster up any appropriate feelings of gratitude. That’s because he suspected the casseroles were more of a means to get to his wallet than any genuine expression of sympathy. A way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. And rich stomachs were always more highly prized. Well, they could have saved themselves the trouble. He wasn’t interested in any of them. No sincerity, and much too obvious.
Only Sadie and Gloria were true to character. Sadie couldn’t cook a casserole to save her life, but she knew how to get a man’s attention. Always had, and wasn’t shy about it either. She also knew how to drive home a point. Obviously she hadn’t forgotten that tacky hundred-dollar-bill incident. And Gloria … still distant. He had expected more from her though. He had hoped for better. She could have suggested they go to the fishing hole. He would have liked that. That would have meant something to him.
C’mon, Press, be fair. You only got back to Appleton this morning.
Fair? Why should he be fair? Was it fair that Virginia had acted more like the Wicked Witch of the West than a mother? Was it fair that it took a deathbed to stir up enough emotion in her to tell him she loved him? Was it fair that he had heard her say those words only once in twenty-nine years? What was so hard about telling someone you loved him, for crying out loud?
Fair? Pffffffff. Forget fair. Gloria should have called.
Gloria fumbled over the keyboard, trying to reshape the Bezier path by moving a handle of its bounding box. She hit F10, the shortcut to Item>Edit>Shape. The flyer should have been finished an hour ago, but nothing she did seemed to produce the desired results. Maybe it was because her mind wasn’t on it, but rather in a wind tunnel somewhere being blown here, there, and everywhere. What was wrong with her? Her mood was so foul it made her dislike her own company. Ever since Cutter had disappeared after Virginia’s death, Gloria had felt out of sorts. And at the reading of Virginia’s will, he had practically ignored her, as
if she were a stranger. She just couldn’t get over it. They were supposed to be friends. The whole thing was working her nerves. Maybe she should borrow some of Wanda’s gum.
She jumped when the phone rang, as though confirming the edginess of her nerves. “Yes!” she answered, her voice sickle-sharp without her wanting it to be. She had to get a grip.
“Gloria?”
She recognized the voice. “Harry, sorry about that. I was sitting at my desk totally absorbed. Didn’t mean to sound like a shrew.”
“What are you working on?”
“A sales flyer for one of the women’s clothing stores. Now that the festival’s over, a lot of stores are running sales trying to get rid of excess inventory.” She heard him sigh.
“Sure miss your work. Can’t find anyone with half your imagination.”
“Maybe we should team up again. Only this time, you come work for me.”
“Huh?”
Gloria told him about the death of Virginia Press and the will and her decision to buy Appleton Printers.
“Well … don’t that beat all? I guess we’ll have to make it a double celebration Saturday.”
“What’s Saturday?”
“That’s what I was calling about. We’re all here missing you and wanted a good excuse to make you come. So Dorie and I plan to throw ourselves an engagement celebration. Perth’ll be there too. She’s doing fine but misses you like crazy. Now we can write something else on the cake besides ‘Happy Engagement.’ What do you say?”
“I’ll be there,” Gloria said, feeling her spirits lift. She remembered Harry’s ragged oven mitts and thought that a new pair would make a perfect engagement gift, along with two tickets to the Eckerd City Playhouse tucked inside. The mitts she would get from a new kitchen store that had just opened in Shepherd’s Field. The tickets she’d get online.
Return to Appleton Page 24
