Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  “I’ll donate,” Chase said. Why had he volunteered so fast? Dusty was okay, for a girl. Really smart about some things, but just so little, five years younger than him. Last time he’d seen her, she’d looked pale as a ghost and had no energy or sense of humor or anything.

  “Doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid, Chase,” Mom said. She hugged him tight. “But it was really good of you to offer.”

  “The doctors said I was the best chance of a match,” Dick said quietly. “But it’s still only a chance.”

  “When will you know?” Chase asked. He could see how much Dick was hurting. Chase felt a tightness in his chest, too. He wanted to help. He really did. He just didn’t know how.

  “I’m having a blood test tomorrow,” Dick said. “Since I’m fifteen now, they don’t see a problem in taking my marrow if it matches. Little kids sometimes have a problem donating ’cause their bones aren’t big enough.”

  “Why?” Chase asked.

  “Do your biology homework and you might find out!” Dick grinned at him. “I’ll help you with it. I’m doing an extra credit report on the DNA of siblings because of Dusty and me being a donor and all.”

  “You sound like you want to be a doctor,” Lynette said. She made goo-goo eyes at Dick. She’d had a crush on him for a couple of weeks now. Chase wasn’t sure he liked that. If she and Dick started to really like each other, he might have to hit Dick if he got too fresh with his sister.

  “I made up my mind this morning,” Dick said, lifting his head proudly. “I’m going to be a doctor. And I’ll find a cure for leukemia so that no other little kid has to be as sick as my sister.”

  “Protecting little kids, that’s . . . that’s like a superhero,” Ginny said. She stared at Dick with the same awestruck look as Lynette.

  Oh, crap. Now Chase had two sisters falling all over themselves to get Dick’s attention.

  But the description of Dick as a superhero had stuck, for a while at least. And Chase had a hard time living up to it. That was why he’d majored in criminal justice and joined the local police force. To compete as best he could with Dick’s image as a superhero.

  Good thing neither of Chase’s sisters had followed through with their crush on Dick. Lynette had gone off to college in Spokane and married a classmate—a computer nerd who’d developed a specialized database for farmers and ranchers and made a lot of money. They had two kids now and lived on a small farm near Spokane. Ginny had a degree in restaurant management and still worked at the diner, planning on taking it over when the folks retired. She was dating the son of their landlord. He hoped she genuinely liked him and wasn’t doing it “for the business.”

  Chase knew that if he ever got up the nerve to ask Dusty out on a real date, he’d be thinking of more important things than business.

  Maybe he should stop by the museum later and make sure she got home okay. She’d be tired after a long day and the parade and all. She’d forget to eat.

  Sounded like a good excuse to get takeout and surprise her.

  Fourteen

  “DUSTY, YOU HAVE TO COME OUT of that corner,” M’velle insisted. She stood, frowning down, with feet planted and hands on hips.

  Dusty peeked up at her, keeping her head on her knees and her arms wrapped around her legs. And her butt firmly planted on the floor. “I . . . I can’t.”

  She’d gotten as far as changing from her sweaty calico costume back into her navy skirt and an ice-blue shell. Then her knees had wobbled and her tummy roiled in uncertainty.

  And fear. Her hands shook and sweat poured down her back and under her arms. “What if . . . what if . . . ?”

  “Nonsense. You can get up. And you will. You have a date with that handsome man in half an hour,” M’velle insisted.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t go out with him.”

  “Why ever not? He’s buying you dinner at that awesome new restaurant downtown. Even if you decide you don’t like him, you’ll get a free meal out of it,” Meggie added, entering the museum employee lounge.

  “But . . . but . . . what if he doesn’t like me?” Dusty shivered in fear. She needed more information. Where was Thistle and her endless stream of gossip when Dusty needed her?

  Ages ago, when Dick had first started dating, Thistle would come to her room and tell her all about the girl, from the color of her lipstick to the brand of toothpaste she didn’t use and should.

  Thistle’s gossip was unerring. She and Dusty predicted how long each romance would last. Thistle was always right.

  So Dusty should cancel the date with Hay because Thistle felt “funny” around him. Shouldn’t she? But “feeling funny” didn’t add up to a snorty laugh, or shopaholic habits, or high maintenance “pay attention to me” attitudes, or a refusal to go to Norton’s after the school dance because it was too inexpensive or low class.

  Neither Thistle nor Dusty knew anything about the man other than his handsome face and glorious smile. At least he brushed his teeth. He had to in order to maintain those brilliant teeth.

  “So what if he doesn’t like you? You’ll get a free meal out of it,” M’Velle confirmed.

  “And you’ll never know if you like him, or if he likes you, unless you go out with him,” Meggie said. “Here, take a sip of this. It will help. I promise.” She held out a miniature bottle filled with amber liquid.

  “What is that?” Dusty lifted her head enough to peer suspiciously at the bottle.

  “Scotch. I found it in Mr. Newberry’s bottom desk drawer.” Meggie unscrewed the cap and offered the bottle to Dusty.

  “How do you know it will help?” Dusty asked. She kept her hands firmly clamped around her legs. “You aren’t old enough to drink scotch.”

  “That’s what my dad says. He calls it Dutch courage. Though I guess it should be Scottish courage.” Meggie pried Dusty’s fingers open enough to slip the bottle behind them. “It’s dusty, so Mr. Newberry has had it hidden for a long time. He shouldn’t miss it from the back of the bottom desk drawer.”

  “So how did you know to look there?” Dusty asked, pushing her panic aside long enough to act like the adult. Maybe the scotch would give her enough . . . false courage to stand up and go home. She couldn’t sit here all night quaking in fear, her knees too watery to hold her up.

  Mom was due to call tonight. Again. She’d be worried if Dusty didn’t answer the phone.

  She took one cautious sip, holding the liquor in her mouth a moment before she could force herself to swallow. A hint of flowers lingered where the scotch touched her tongue. Warmth crept outward.

  Then she let the liquid slide down her throat. It hit her stomach with explosive force, burning all the way back up to her mouth. Her eyes opened wide with surprise, and her mouth gaped, trying to breathe flame.

  And miraculously that hint of flowers returned as a gentle reminder of the wonders of the drink.

  Feeling returned to her cramped knees, and her hands stopped shaking. She took another sip with only slightly less spectacular results.

  “I could get used to this.”

  “Don’t.” M’velle crouched before her, placing one hand over the bottle so Dusty couldn’t drink again. “It’s dangerous to rely on it. Good only in emergencies. That’s what Mr. Newberry used it for, but he hasn’t needed it in a long time. Now this is an emergency. Can you stand up?”

  Dusty nodded.

  The girls each got a hand beneath one of her elbows and heaved her upward. Dusty swayed, leaning heavily against Meggie, the taller and stronger of the girls. Her head spun. But she kept the tiny bottle inside her fierce grip.

  “Now that you are willing to listen,” M’velle demanded her attention. “You need to go on this date, Dusty. If you don’t go tonight, then you’ll never have the courage to go again. You’ll be left with your mom’s lame and unsuitable fix ups. None of them have worked. This one might.”

  “You’ll wind up a withered stick of an old maid before you’re twenty-six,” Meggie added.

 
“No, Dusty, you don’t have to do this,” Joe said from the doorway. He still wore his calico shirt and canvas pants from the parade. He looked tired and worried. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He walked toward her on silent, careful steps. “I’ll take you home. You and me and the girls can make popcorn and watch an old movie. You don’t need this other guy.”

  “No, Joe. The girls are right. I have to do this.” Dusty pulled herself up straight, balancing on her own two feet. Her head remained clamped to her shoulders. She looked at the scotch bottle with disdain and a curious longing. Time to put it aside, along with her childish fears.

  Memories of her flying dream returned with gentle but persistent jolts. She held the sensation of carefree soaring firmly in her heart.

  She’d told Thistle she had to grow up. The time had long passed when Dusty needed to take her own advice.

  “We’ll do popcorn and a movie another night. Maybe tomorrow. I think they’re replaying Mary Poppins.”

  “Dusty, I. . . .” Joe reached a hand toward her, then dropped it. “Never mind. Do what you have to do.”

  “If I don’t go out with Haywood Wheatland tonight, I’ll never go anywhere other than the basement or home, for the rest of my life.” She repeated the girls’ words. Then she patted his shoulder and thrust the bottle of booze into his hand, closing his fingers around it.

  She whispered. “I don’t need any more of this. And I don’t think you do either.” Then she marched toward the bathroom to wash her face and tidy her hair.

  “Here,” Meggie thrust something else into her hand. “This color of lipstick and blush will look really good on you.”

  “Thanks.” Meggie had helped her pick out her date outfit, and provided makeup. Just as well as Phelma Jo would have. If she could ever again consider Phelma Jo a friend.

  Phelma Jo hid behind her menu as Haywood Wheatland and Dusty Carrick walked into the tiny restaurant tucked between a furniture store and a florist on Main Street. He touched Dusty’s back in an intimate gesture that suggested a long relationship. They looked at each other, not at any of the other patrons, including Phelma Jo. Hay didn’t even acknowledge her presence, though she’d orchestrated the entire evening for him.

  Heat flashed across Phelma Jo’s face while her gut turned to ice. She gulped her iced tea.

  Hay held a chair for Dusty and helped her scoot closer to their tiny round table at the center of the dining room. Three other tables and six booths along the walls filled the space. The single waiter barely had room to negotiate between, carrying his heavy tray over the top of his head.

  Phelma Jo remembered her own humiliation when a waiter had spilled an entire pitcher of beer on her the other night. She wished ardently that this one, the husband of the chef and joint owner, would dump a plateful of messy tomato dishes on Dusty’s head.

  The evening was out of her control and she hated the helplessness of just sitting and watching.

  However, the entire meal passed uneventfully. Haywood told elaborate and preposterous stories. Dusty laughed. She positively sparkled. Dusty! The woman barely spoke to anyone and here she looked as lovely, happy, and vivacious as any normal teenager out to impress a date.

  What was going on here?

  Jealousy ate at Phelma Jo, turning her dinner to a heavy lump. She needed Hay to lean across the table and dab at a stray drop of honey from the baklava with his napkin on her mouth, not Dusty’s.

  His hand lingered a bit too long. Their eyes met and probed each other too deeply. He looked like he wanted to kiss Dusty right then and there. In public.

  That degree of intimacy was above and beyond the call. Hay worked for Phelma Jo. He was supposed to woo Dusty, keep her occupied while Phelma Jo completed her business, not fall in love with her.

  Then, finally, as Haywood signaled for the check, his gaze caught Phelma Jo’s. He nodded ever so slightly and smiled.

  A secret smile just between the two of them. She had nothing to fear. Their plans continued on track. He was just following orders.

  Phelma Jo took a last bite of her own baklava and signaled for her check.

  “Not so fast, PJ,” the Thistle creature said, plunking herself down opposite Phelma Jo. She wore a different sundress from yesterday. This one had big splashes of hot-pink flowers with lots of green ferns scattered through the cotton print. She smelled of lavender soap and shampoo.

  The way Phelma Jo had wanted to smell when she was little.

  All of a sudden a memory grabbed her and took her back to the school counselor’s office. He talked gently about her need to bathe more often. Phelma Jo tried to keep her mouth shut, too humiliated to admit why she avoided the bathtub.

  The counselor persisted, worming his way under her defenses, taking control of the interview until she blurted out how she wouldn’t take off her clothes because her mother’s boyfriend watched and drooled, and then he touched her. Sometimes until she screamed.

  And her mother snored away in the bedroom too drunk to care.

  That was when Phelma Jo learned to manipulate and control her life by how much she revealed and when. By holding back, dribbling bits and pieces, she made the counselor’s horror grow. Made her story more believable. Got herself into foster care where she could take a bath in safety.

  “Excuse me, I don’t have to talk to you,” Phelma Jo looked Thistle in the eye, daring her to say more.

  “Don’t chew your lower lip, PJ, it makes you look like a rabbit. Bad habit left over from when you were thirteen and state funds wouldn’t pay for you to get braces.”

  “I’m not listening to you. Now leave me alone.” Panic nibbled at her belly. She was losing control over the situation.

  “I’ll go away soon. So listen closely. Dusty is my friend. I thought I’d better tell you that I won’t let you pull any more nasty tricks on her,” Thistle said.

  “What . . . how . . . ? You don’t know what you’re talking about. And neither do I.” Phelma Jo covered her surprise at the woman’s audacity with wounded dignity. “Dusty is the one who pulls nasty tricks on her friends.”

  “Not the way I heard it. And you do know what I’m talking about. I just thought I’d give you fair warning. Trick for trick. I’m protecting Dusty.”

  “Very well. If you insist. But who will protect The Ten Acre Wood?” Phelma Jo arched an eyebrow. She threw a twenty onto the table and left without waiting for Dusty and Hay to exit first.

  Fifteen

  “I’M NOT ON DUTY,” DUSTY CALLED to the two retired schoolteachers who worked the museum on Sunday afternoon. She tripped lightly through the maze of rooms, smiling at the few guests. Intense sunlight took on a softer quality as it filtered through the windows. She paused a moment to admire the bright colors in the braided rag rug on the floor of the parlor and the crazy quilt hanging on the wall.

  She kept thinking about the easy camaraderie she had shared with Hay last night, how his funny stories made the Greek food more tasty, how the touch of his hand on hers sent shivers of delight from her fingers to her toes to her heart.

  Eventually she yanked herself back to reality and headed for the basement; not to hide, but to finish the neglected piecing together of broken pottery fragments.

  Dusty didn’t bother turning on the lights over the stairs. She skipped down them lightly with easy familiarity. As her feet touched the cement foundation floor, she reached overhead for the light chain. An incandescent yellow glow flooded the area. She noticed the shadowed grime for the first time.

  How could she have spent so much of her adult life down here hiding from sunlight? And from life?

  Instead of heading directly to the potsherds spread out over the left-hand plank counter covered in white cloth that wasn’t really white, she made her way through a maze of packing barrels, sifters, magnification light boards, and other analysis equipment for the set-tub and cleaning supplies beneath one of the few high windows. She grabbed a spray bottle of cleaner and some rags, then turned to surv
ey the full basement. Where to start?

  Everywhere. She started at the sink, thinking to move outward from there.

  Before she could scrub more than one side of the deep square set-tub, her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her denim skirt. Absently, she grabbed it and flipped it open without checking the caller ID.

  “Dusty? Is that you? You sound so far away,” Mom said.

  “Hi, Mom. I’m in the basement. Not much signal.” Dusty set aside her cleaning supplies and moved to the next counter beneath a slightly larger window, hoping for better reception.

  “Where else would you be on your day off?” Mom said soothingly. “I hope you’re having a lovely time making up stories about the people who used the artifacts you work with.”

  Dusty smiled in memory of the Indian princess and the Russian pirate who gave her that decorated ceramic pot. Daydreams and what ifs. She now had a lovely date with Hay to occupy her thoughts.

  “Sorry I missed your call last night. I had a date,” Dusty said, half afraid that if she spoke the words aloud her wonderful evening would evaporate just like her dream of flying with freedom and self-confidence.

  “That’s nice, dear. Dick told me that you and he went out with Chase and another girl. Did you have a nice time?”

  What? Mom had confused the days. Not hard for her to do when at home with the calendar on her phone, her computer, and the kitchen wall, let alone 6,000 miles away.

  She hadn’t even asked about the Garden Club’s entry in the parade.

  Dusty decided right then and there to keep her amazing happiness a secret a little while longer; to hold it close and cherish it before someone could dash it into more slivers than the blasted Russian pot on the other counter.

  “Yeah, Mom, we had a wonderful time. Did you know Chase does a really graceful two-step?”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, dear. Who is this new girl Dick dated?”