For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  Till death do us part; Chelsea's own marriage vows were so new that the words rang in her ears. Yet it was only now, seeing her mother from a different perspective, that she appreciated the huge boulder Gin was forced to circumvent.

  Aunt Didi was right. It was time for Gin to put herself out there socially.

  Perhaps Didi didn’t realize her best friend was already doing that—her way.

  Chapter 18

  CISSIE HAD SPREAD a blue and white plaid football blanket at the bottom of her back steps. Eric sprawled across the part that covered grass and appeared to be comfortable, while I perched on the step beside Cissie and worried about my floppy paper plate falling off my lap.

  The silence between the two strangers stretched on a beat too long, so I diffused it with some of my patented babble.

  “My friend and I used to stuff our bologna sandwiches with pretzel sticks. Haven’t seen pretzel sticks like that for ages.” I’m sure I appeared vexed.

  Baby Caroline dropped her stuffed giraffe from within her shaded stroller, and as Cissie bent to retrieve it, she remarked, “Potato chips might work.”

  I promised to give potato chips a try.

  While the young mother flicked a strand of corn-silk blonde hair off her face, Eric Zumstein watched with fascination.

  “Did you grow up around here?” he asked.

  Smooth opening, and original, too. I bit into my sandwich to suppress a chuckle.

  “Wisconsin.”

  Eric pretended to be appalled. “A Packers fan!”

  “Not me." Cissie giggled. "I hate football. Did you play?”

  “Nah. My high school didn't have a team.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Philadelphia. And college...” He shrugged.

  Our hostess took that in stride, but his non-answer raised my eyebrow.

  “What did you study?” I inquired, the same time Cissie asked what he did for a living.

  “I was a bank teller until last month. Having a helluva time finding anything else, so before I totally ran out of cash, I moved in with Gram.”

  When Cissie smiled, the sun shone a little brighter. “That’s nice.”

  Eric erased the compliment with his hand. ““Expedient. She needs somebody to look after her, and I need a place to live.”

  “It’s still nice.”

  I squirmed on the unforgiving step.

  “She needs help because...?” I wondered aloud.

  Eric immediately sat upright. “Because what?”

  Because she’s losing her grip?

  “Because, um, because you’re worried what she’ll do?”

  Eric was no longer the languid, I’m-on-vacation-from-my-grandmother lump on the grass he’d been the moment before. He lowered his eyebrows to say, “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve seen?”

  Now Cissie was staring and biting her lip.

  I explained that I’d witnessed Maisie throwing a bag of clothes—and bricks—out of an upstairs window.”

  “Anything else?”

  I consulted a cloud in the sky. “I’ve seen her carrying around a long rope, and a big knife.”

  A short laugh failed to hide Eric’s discomfort. “My grandmother does read a lot of mysteries.” I nodded as if giving that thought. “For entertainment, of course. They’re not how-to books.”

  “Good!” I spread my hand across my heart. “Good to know she doesn’t want to kill you.

  “Although...She doesn’t own a gun, does she?”

  Eric’s eyes widened. “Nooo...”

  “Because I also heard a pop-pop-pop coming from your yard, and I smelled some really stinky smoke. I thought maybe it was from a gun.”

  A surprising expression took over Eric’s face: infectious, eye-crinkling mirth. “Let me guess. You read a lot of mysteries, too.”

  I replied with a smile, but I was still waiting for an explanation.

  Which was not lost on Mrs. Zumstein’s very imposing grandson. “Would exploding eggs put your mind at ease?”

  “Uh...”

  “Gram was trying to make egg salad last week, but the water boiled away. Siss, boom, bang.” He gestured wildly. “I tried to save the pot, but it was a goner.”

  His explanation actually made sense; I’d seen an abandoned pot among the mess at the Maisie’s backdoor.

  I placed the back of my hand to my forehead. “Phew. That’s a relief. I was afraid my daughter was living next to Lizzie Borden.”

  Although the whole exchange had dismayed Cissie, she was once again beaming. “And I’m glad nobody’s trying to kill you.” Her hand casually patted Eric’s knee, but there was nothing casual about his flinch.

  “Oh, no,” he demurred. “If anyone has a motive, it would be me.”

  The looks Cissie and I traded prompted Eric to explain. “I’m supposed to inherit the house.”

  “Nice,” said Cissie, showing off her dimples.

  “Not too soon,” I said, finding my tact at last.

  Already I’d seen and heard more than enough, so I gathered my paper trash and rose. “Better get back to work. Thanks for the lunch, Cissie. Just the break I needed.” I’m so glad your husband didn’t come home.

  The young woman stood to kiss me good-bye. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. B...er, Gin. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  I eyed Eric as pointedly as I could, but he was too smitten to take the hint.

  Chapter 19

  AS CHELSEA’S mother rolled paint onto the last wall, Fideaux wandered in to give his owner The Look.

  “My turn!” Chelsea exclaimed, eagerly setting down her paint brush. “Let's go, pal," she urged the dog, then hustled downstairs behind him.

  When the duo reached the far right corner of the yard, Fideaux shot his hostess an almost audible, privacy-please glance until she turned away to survey her surroundings.

  Now that she noticed, it was a lovely afternoon—blue sky, light breeze, a cabbage butterfly flitting around at random. The yard didn’t offer much to write home about, but it was hers and Bobby's and she enjoyed an unaccustomed sense of ownership.

  Nearby a male voice began to sing scales the way Chelsea had been taught to warm up her voice in college.

  Unaware that she was in motion, she gravitated toward Mrs. Zumstein’s detached garage. Situated halfway back from the house it sat snug up against the fence. Chelsea knew the small structure was stuffed with cast-off furniture and other junk; yet as she lowered herself cross-legged onto the grass, it became a theater.

  "Oh boy, oh boy. Your pipes, your pipes are rusty..."

  Eric Zumsteim. Had to be him.

  A clearing of the throat and the song began in earnest. "Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling/From glen to glen, and down the mountain side..."

  Chelsea's jaw dropped. Even as a music major, she'd never experienced a live voice quite so heartbreaking. From a terribly expensive seat in the fiftieth row...maybe. Maybe.

  "The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying..."

  No way could Chelsea exile herself from this. She crossed her fingers hoping her mother would understand.

  "'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide..."

  She drew a deep jagged breath. Sure, the song was a guaranteed tear-jerker, but really! This guy was ripping her heart right out.

  Next, "Ol' Man River," but like no other Chelsea had ever heard. Pulsing with pain, it filled her with empathy for the slave pulling the barge. Until Fideaux pushed between her arms and licked her face, she had been unaware that her cheeks were wet.

  Then Eric launched into such an intimate “If I Loved You” from Carousel that she suddenly felt like a voyeur. Blushing to the roots of her hair, she rose from the grass and gently guided Fideaux toward the house. They slipped inside the backdoor with scarcely a click of the latch.

  At the end of the day she held a trash bag open for her mother to stuff with soiled newspapers. "He's amazing," she repeated for the seventh time. "T
he guy should have an agent, a recording contract—fans!"

  "Sounds like he already has one of those," Gin remarked.

  Someone hammered on the front door.

  Chelsea lowered the trash bag. "I’ll go. My house, my ten-year-old fundraiser."

  Yet when she arrived downstairs, she was shocked to recognize Eric Zumstein’s profile through the window. For a second she feared he had come to scold her for listening to his rehearsal. But then he turned toward her, and she saw he was distressed about something much, much worse.

  She opened the door.

  "Is your mom still here?" he asked.

  "Yes, upstairs.”

  "Can you please get her for me? I've got an ambulance coming for Gram."

  ***

  "MOM!" CHELSEA SHOUTED up to me on the third floor. "Eric needs you. It's an emergency."

  I threw down my paintbrush and ran down the stairs.

  "Gram fell," Eric told me before I even reached the foyer.

  When we were face to face, he explained. "She's pretty shook up, and she's confused, too. Thinks I'm her ex-husband, who's dead by the way, but she hated the guy and won't do anything she thinks he wants her to do, which includes going to the hospital. Could you please try to convince her...?"

  "Lead the way."

  Eric ushered me into the gray Victorian’s front hall. “Thanks a million,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn't think of anything else to do."

  "No problem."

  Tucked under a blanket at the bottom of the stairs, Maisie Zumstein moaned with pain. In the distance we heard the strident approach of an ambulance.

  "Maisie?" I said softly as I kneeled beside the woman. "My name is Gin. I'm Chelsea's mother from next door. It seems that you had a fall.”

  Mrs. Zumstein met my eyes and nodded once. Tears trailed into the fuzzy hair that had fallen onto her face. I cleared her eyes and wiped her nose with the clean tissue I kept in my pocket.

  "Don't make me go with him," the old woman begged. "Please don't make me go with him."

  "I won't," I said, gently stroking her cheek. "But you should go to the hospital and get checked out. I can see that you’re in pain."

  The fright in the woman's eyes emphasized just how bad the pain really was.

  "What should I do?" Eric asked from a discreet distance.

  I asked him to grab her insurance cards and any meds she was taking. “Then why don’t you follow us? Maybe ask Chelsea to follow you so I can get a ride back."

  "You're going with Gram?"

  "If they'll let me."

  My stomach lurched to see the unnatural angle of Maisie’s right arm as the emergency crew maneuvered her onto their gurney. I’m sure they were handling her as carefully as they could, but she cried out pitifully with each change of position.

  Hovering as near as he dared, Eric shuffled and twitched and desperately tried to tell the EMTs about his grandmother’s confusion. The two technicians were so focused on Maisie, I didn’t think they were listening. But without taking his eyes off the patient the older of the two men responded.

  "To be expected," he reassured her distraught relative. "She's had quite a shock."

  When the time came to decide whether I should go or stay, the same EMT convinced me to stay. "If she gets upset, we'll tell her we're doctors, although the drugs should knock her out pretty quickly."

  Chelsea and I stood helplessly on the sidewalk watching the ambulance roar down the street, siren blaring.

  When it was out of sight, Chelsea put her arm across my shoulders. "Maybe you should move in with us,” she said with mock earnesty. “My neighbors can’t seem to manage without you.”

  I huffed out a little laugh, but that was all.

  I was remembering Eric’s unsolicited remark. “I’m supposed to inherit the house.”

  Chapter 20

  "THAT’S BETTER," I told Jack the morning after Maisie Zumstein’s fall.

  We’d been pretending his toy horses lived on a ranch with a lake. Visiting their little plastic friends necessitated swimming from one side of the kitchen sink to the other, an activity that soaked not only the ranch but the entire countryside. And of course, Jack. I’d just changed him into dry shorts and another sleeveless t-shirt.

  "Let’s go out for ice cream," I declared. The TV weathermen claimed this would be the hottest day of the year, and for once I believed them.

  Jack squealed and ran for the door.

  "Hold up, Kiddo," I called after him. "I've gotta grab your diaper bag." And the car seat, and the shared house key. Mike wouldn't allow Susan to give me one of my own.

  Threatening my waistline and Jack's lunch with ice cream was a no-brainer, but I also had a secret agenda.

  "What a lovely surprise," Jack's grandfather responded to my invitation. "Meet you there in half an hour."

  There was a local dairy farm that earned an A+ for marketing. Set a convenient two miles outside of Ludwig, it offered its own brand of ice cream and a selection of Pennsylvania Dutch specialties, such as Shoo-fly pie, Chow Chow, and fresh sticky buns. Displayed roadside were colorful flats of plants to tempt the local gardeners, and behind the shop were barns and pens of farm animals available for petting. In autumn there would be chrysanthemums and pumpkins, corn stalks and apple cider. I loved the place and knew Jack would, too.

  "Ice cream first, cows second," I told the boy after I released him from his car seat. "Hey! Hold my hand in the parking lot." The encyclopedia of precautions required to keep a toddler safe, it had all come back.

  "Hello, hello," George called from the entry to the ice cream parlor. "Jackie boy. I understand you're getting a treat for lunch. What flavor, eh? Chocolate? Vanilla?"

  Jack bounced with excitement. "'nana choco chip."

  George directed widened eyes at me. "Did you teach him that?"

  “We talked about it a little in the car.”

  George regarded me with warmth. "And you know Jack loves bananas and chocolate. Looks like I recommended the right person for the job.”

  “Come, come.” Jack tugged me toward the door.

  "He's talking more, too,” his grandfather observed.

  "Jack's a smart kid. No holding him back."

  I longed to interrogate George about the Swenson family dynamics, but I remembered my husband’s effort to teach me finesse. “You can’t just ask somebody if they're pregnant,” Rip cautioned. “Ask if they have anything special going on this summer, something like that."

  And so I worked on my wording while we waited for the freckled-faced college girl behind the tall counter to fill our order: a scoop of Banana Chocolate Chip in a cup for Jack, a caramel swirl sundae for me, and a double dip strawberry cone for George.

  After paying, George dropped his change into the tip jar, and we went back outside to the half-dozen picnic benches shaded by four huge pin oaks. A welcome breeze blew the fragrance of eye-height cornstalks toward us from the adjacent field.

  Since our ice cream was melting fast, I waited until we had that under control before I broached my delicate subject.

  "I know the Swensons have moved around a lot," I opened, "so I got Jack a jigsaw puzzle of the United States to show him where he's been."

  "You sure that isn't a little beyond our boy?”

  "Never know until you try. Trouble is, I have no idea where all they’ve lived."

  George took care of a strawberry drip before it landed on his knee. Then he gazed into the distance beyond the corn field.

  "Mike and Susan were married in Minneapolis and adopted Jack soon after,” he recalled. “Then it was Indiahoma, Oklahoma, briefly. Then Pollock, Louisiana; Montezuma, New York; Jacksonville, Florida, and here."

  Except for the latter, dots on the map, I thought. Odd, remote dots on the map.

  "Indiahoma, Pollock, Montezuma, Jacksonville and Norristown," I repeated to aid my memory. "Why those places, do you know?"

  George’s quick glance noted my skepticism. "Job opportunities, according to Susan
. I told you I'm not that keen on my son-in-law. His employment record is one reason."

  I helped Jack get a decent spoonful of ice cream, then I wrinkled my nose as if I were being playful. “You don’t suppose he was into anything illegal?”

  George failed to look as shocked as he should have. "It crossed my mind," he admitted. "But I decided if that were the case, they wouldn’t have been able to adopt Jack."

  "That's a relief then, isn't it?" I said, yet something still seemed off.

  "I saw Mike come out of the newspaper building in Norristown the other day. Is that what he does, works for newspapers?"

  Jack’s grandfather shifted on the picnic-bench seat as if the question had made him uncomfortable.

  "Susan doesn't always tell me what Mike’s jobs are," he said. "I'm not sure she always knows."

  "Sorry if I'm being too inquisitive." I gestured toward Jack to indicate my interest was on his behalf. Which, ultimately, it was.

  George waved his head. "You're only asking the same things I’ve asked myself."

  Returning to firmer ground, I inquired about the couple’s wedding. “Was it nice?"

  In spite of being flushed from the heat, I thought George paled. “I wasn’t there.”

  "Oh." Oh, dear.

  I shifted topics again. "I guess you're delighted they moved back here."

  "Yes. Oh, yes," he agreed with a wistful smile.

  So what if George Donald Elliot was an uptight insurance salesman; he was becoming a more complete person in my eyes, one who was understandably worried about his daughter's choice of a husband.

  "Susan seems to love her new job," I observed.

  "Oh, yes. I'm still surprised Mike came around, but I’m glad he did."

  "I'm glad, too. Otherwise, I wouldn't be getting to know Jack."

  "You like him, don't you?"

  I glanced up at those unadorned golden-brown eyes and said, "I do," and to my surprise the corner of George’s lips lifted.