She stood undecided, wishing with all her heart she’d never laid eyes on Clover Fox. Her thumb still stung, her cheekbone throbbed and felt as if it was swelling and Clover’s shoes had put dirt marks all over her clean khaki pants. She undoubtedly had bruises on her thighs, as well.
Slowly Polly became aware of a siren approaching, and she jumped back when a police car squealed to a stop a scant four feet from her car.
The R.C.M.P. officer was out of the car and standing beside Polly almost before the wheels had stopped turning. Simultaneously, the door of the apartment building opened and the woman Polly had passed on the stairs stood there, hands on her hips.
“Officer, she’s kidnapping that little girl,” she screeched. “I know Jerome, I’m his landlady. That’s his little girl. His wife ain’t been around awhile but this woman sure ain’t her.”
The confusion took forty long, humiliating minutes to sort out. The officer made calls to the hospital to confirm that Jerome was a patient and calls to Michael’s office to confirm that Polly was who her driver’s license said she was.
Apparently Michael was at the hospital delivering a baby, but Valerie must have been convincing, because finally the policeman apologized and drove off.
While she was under suspicion of kidnapping, Polly decided categorically that as soon as she was out of sight of the law, she was dropping Clover off at Social Services. The idea lost appeal, however, when she thought about the explanations she’d have to make, the upset it would cause Jerome.
Instead, she drove straight home, exchanging murderous looks with Clover at every stoplight.
At home, Clover meekly followed Polly inside, ate without protest the soup and sandwich set in front of her and, clutching her rabbit, marched off to take a nap without being told.
Polly sank into a chair and held a bag of frozen peas to her aching cheekbone. The phone rang, but she let the machine take it. She listened to Michael’s voice apologizing for not being available when the police phoned and urging her to call him as soon as she got home.
She went upstairs and checked on Clover, who was sound asleep and looking almost angelic. Polly went into the bathroom, stripped off her filthy clothes, then filled the tub with hot water and lavender bath oil. She soaked her aching body and her bitten finger and contemplated her life, her marriage, the vast well of anger that never seemed to empty.
Making love with Michael the night before had been wonderful, but she’d felt alone and bereft afterward, furious with him and resentful of Clover.
She thought about the intensity of her feelings toward the child. Against her, she corrected. It wasn’t natural to dislike a little kid this way. She needed help.
After a while she climbed out of the water and got dressed. Then she called Frannie Sullivan’s number at St. Joe’s, only to be told that Frannie was on holiday and wouldn’t be available for ten days.
“Ten days?” It seemed an eternity. Polly’s dismay must have been evident in her tone, because the receptionist said, “If it’s urgent, Mr. Canning can see you, Mrs. Forsythe. He’s relieving for Mrs. Sullivan. He has an opening—”
“No, no, it’s all right. I’ll wait for Frannie. Make an appointment for me as soon as she’s back.”
Feeling totally abandoned, Polly wrote down the date and time the woman gave her.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, which Polly considered a blessing. When Clover woke up, she asked to have the television on.
“I like cartoons. I wanna watch. My daddy always lets me,” she whined.
Polly, who deplored whining and had always been critical of allowing children to stare at a television when they could be doing something imaginative, silently led the way to the family room and switched on the machine.
Clover was still sitting in front of it when Michael arrived. Polly had been flicking restlessly through art magazines and feeling guilty about using the television as a baby-sitter. Now she gaped at Michael and then looked at the clock in amazement.
It was only five-thirty.
“What are you doing home so early? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing at all.” He came over to her, gave her a chaste kiss and examined her cheek with gentle fingers. “What happened to you?”
“Clover bonked me with her head.”
“Was this before or after you had a run-in with the law?”
“Before. Just after she bit me.” Polly held up her thumb.
Michael looked at it. “You probably should have a tetanus shot. Kid’s got a mean strike,” he commented.
But Polly could tell he was more amused than disturbed.
Clover heard his voice just then and came running.
“Hiya, Doctor.” She gave him a radiant smile and put her hand in his.
“Hi, Clover.” Michael smiled at her. “So is this Wilbur, the famous rabbit?”
She’d clutched the stuffed toy to her chest all afternoon, cringing and scowling at Polly if she came near, as if Polly were about to steal the bedraggled thing. Now Clover offered Wilbur to Michael, who looked over the toy and admired it extravagantly before giving it back to her.
“I had Valerie reschedule some appointments so I could take you girls out for a pizza.”
He hadn’t been home this early in months. Polly tried not to resent the fact that his appearance now was solely due to Clover’s presence.
“Pizza sounds good,” she managed to mumble with a semblance of grace.
It drove Polly nuts to acknowledge yet again that with Michael around, Clover was a different child. At the pizza parlor, Polly watched and listened as she chattered to Michael, telling him about something she’d seen on television, gesticulating with both hands to earnestly illustrate a point. She ate two large slices of vegetarian pizza and without a single complaint drank the orange juice Michael ordered for her.
Afterward, Michael drove to a nearby park that had slides and swings and climbing apparatuses, and Polly sat on a bench and again watched as Michael played with Clover. The little girl’s shrieks of laughter were a reproach as well as a source of irritation. Seeing Michael push the swing high, hearing him laugh with Clover, bothered Polly deeply, and she couldn’t dispel her negative feelings no matter how much she tried.
Back at the house, it was Michael who put Clover to bed. From the bottom of the stairs, Polly could hear the muted sound of his voice as he told the little girl a story, probably one of the same unlikely tales he’d made up for Susannah when she was small. For some reason it hurt Polly so much she felt like storming up the stairs and screaming at him to stop, but of course she didn’t. When at last he came down, she pretended to be absorbed in a television documentary on the homeless.
“I have to do house calls, Pol, then check on a patient at St. Joe’s.”
He picked up his keys from the hall table, adding the phrase she’d come to expect and hate.
“Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.”
It was a relief to have him gone, she told herself. And then she burst into tears.
After that first day, Polly did her best to avoid confrontations with Clover. She let the girl eat what she wanted, choose her own clothes, brush her own hair. She invented errands they could do each morning, to pass the time until Clover napped.
In the afternoon, steeling herself, she’d dug out a bag of toys and the box of clothing. Clover accepted both without enthusiasm.
The only serious problem was Susannah’s room. Polly caught Clover in there repeatedly, and each time she barely held her temper.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” she reprimanded.
Clover would nod vigorously: “Off limits,” she’d parrot in a stern voice.
But the moment Polly’s back was turned, she’d sneak in again. Polly gritted her teeth and counted the days until her appointment with Frannie.
Just as he’d promised, Michael managed to come home early most evenings, and Polly was relieved to turn Clover over to him.
He to
ok the child with him to St. Joe’s to see her father, and he bought her a small tape player and a handful of children’s tapes when he found she liked music.
As a result, Clover adored him. She’d watch for his car from the front window, then run to greet him, shrieking, “Doctor’s home. Doctor’s home.”
It grated on Polly’s nerves.
The fourth day of Clover’s stay, Polly realized she still hadn’t gone to see Jerome herself, so when Clover woke up from her nap, they headed for St. Joe’s.
Polly bought an enormous bouquet of spring flowers and a funny card before she made her way up to orthopedics, the moment the elevator doors opened, Clover went running down the hallway and disappeared into Jerome’s room.
Polly followed, surprised and a little disappointed to find Norah sitting beside Jerome’s bed.
Polly greeted them both, then impulsively leaned down and kissed Jerome’s cheek, laughing at the lipstick imprint that remained there.
“It’s great to see you, Polly,” Jerome said with a warm smile. “I’ve wanted to thank you for taking care of Clover for me.”
Polly was shocked at how much older he looked. It was obvious his injuries had taken a severe toll. His skin now had a grayish cast, and lines of strain edged his mouth and eyes.
“We brought you flowers, Daddy.” Clover had climbed up on the bed, careful of the IV and his casts. She put her hand on his face and patted him tenderly. “I luff you, Daddy,” she said.
Polly was touched. “We all luff your daddy, Clover. We want him to get well really quick. Now, what can I put these flowers in?”
“There should be something here.” Norah opened a cupboard and found a container, and Polly followed her sister into the hallway when she went to fill the vase.
“You seen Mom lately?” Norah’s voice was low and tense.
Polly was leaning over the sink, carefully arranging the flowers in the water. "Nope. Not since the day Jerome got hurt.” Was that only four days ago? It seemed like half a lifetime.
“She hasn’t called. She probably thinks I’ll ask her to baby-sit. You been over there?”
Norah nodded. “Yesterday afternoon. Nobody home. I called her this morning, really early. Still nobody home. I used the key she keeps hidden under the steps and went in, I was afraid maybe she’d fallen down the basement stairs or slipped in the bath or something. But she wasn’t there.” Norah sounded anxious. “I’m gonna drop by again sometime today.”
Polly snorted. “She’s probably in bed with that guy she’s having the big affair with.” “But I thought you said they stay at her place.”
“She said that to get out of keeping Clover.”
“Mom doesn’t lie, Polly.”
A definite warning note sounded in Norah’s voice, and Polly glanced at her in surprise.
“If they weren’t staying at her house she’d have said so.”
“What’s the matter, Norah? How come you’re so touchy all of a sudden?”
“I told you. I’m worried about Mom.”
Polly snorted. “I wouldn’t waste my time or energy. She sure doesn’t return the favor.”
“Don’t always be so hard on her.” This time there was outright hostility in Norah’s voice.
Polly decided not to pursue the issue. She had enough to think about without arguing with her sister. She carried the flowers over to Jerome’s bed and set them on the bedside table. “This is a heck of a way to get out of taking me to lunch, Jerome,” she teased, deliberately flirting a little to cheer him up. “We were supposed to go to the pub as soon as we finished the painting, not meet this way in the hospital.”
“I’ll give you a rain check, Polly. The moment I’m out of here we’ll go.”
“It’s a date,” Polly agreed.
Clover was sitting contentedly beside her father, looking at a magazine she’d taken from the side table.
“Thanks for the flowers and the card, Polly,” he said. “Is this girl of mine behaving herself with you?”
Clover jerked up her head and looked at Polly with wary eyes.
Surreptitiously, Polly rubbed at the bandage on her thumb. “I’m sure she’s doing her best,” she managed.
“I hope so. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with the landlady the other day. She’s a busybody, always got her nose stuck into everybody’s business. I couldn’t believe she called the cops on you.”
“What happened, exactly?” Norah asked. “Jerome mentioned you had some problem.”
Polly told her an abridged version of the story, editing out the massive fight she’d had with Clover and making the incident sound funny instead of awful.
Jerome laughed, but Norah didn’t.
Polly was aware the whole time that Clover was watching her anxiously. It was obvious the girl didn’t want her father to know she’d misbehaved.
Norah, on the other hand, was giving her disapproving glances. All in all, the atmosphere in the room was strained.
Polly chatted on, deliberately trying to amuse Jerome but more and more aware of Norah’s silence.
“Is there anything you need?” she finally asked him. “I’m going shopping later. I could drop it off here.”
“Nothing at all, thanks.” He turned his head and smiled at Norah. “Norah’s been wonderful. She brought extra juice and some shaving stuff, and that fruit over there. She’s been stopping by every couple of hours and bringing me whatever I need.”
Polly glanced at Norah. Her sister’s face was turning bright red and she avoided Polly’s gaze.
“I’m working right on the next floor. It’s easy to pop down whenever we’re not in the middle of a delivery,” she said, trying for nonchalance and failing.
Every couple of hours? It suddenly dawned on Polly that Norah was in love.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Polly studied her sister, seeing changes in her she’d been too preoccupied to notice until now. Norah was actually wearing eye makeup and lipstick, which she hardly ever did. She had on a blue dress that Polly had never seen before, a dress that revealed her slender figure in a flattering way. Her silky hair was still in its customary shoulder-length bob, but a portion on the crown was drawn back into a silver clip, and the style softened her features.
All of a sudden Norah was pretty. Her hazel eyes were shining; the high color on her cheeks accentuated her clear, pale skin.
Also for the first time, Polly noticed how Jerome’s blue eyes softened when he looked at Norah.
She suddenly felt like an idiot for not realizing that the two were attracted to each other and wanted to be alone.
She got to her feet, but she could see by Clover’s rebellious expression that the girl was going to throw a full-scale tantrum if Polly suggested they leave so soon.
Inspiration struck. “I don’t suppose you could keep an eye on Clover for a while, Norah. I’ve got to go, I have a ton of errands to run and it’s boring for her to tag along. I think she’d much rather be here with her daddy. Right, Clover?”
Clover nodded vigorously.
“I could come back and get her in an hour or two.”
“I’d love to have her.” Norah smiled at Clover. “I just got off shift, so I’m free for the evening. I’ll bring her home later. We’ll stay here until Jerome gets tired and then maybe go check out the kiddie train in Stanley Park and grab some dinner. Would you like that, Clover?”
Again, Clover nodded with enthusiasm.
Polly cheerfully said goodbye and hurried out. The elevator was empty; she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, letting the false smile fade at last.
She was stupid, stupid, not to have realized sooner that Norah wanted Jerome all to herself. And there was absolutely no reason to feel this lonely and left out. After all, she didn’t have to even think about Clover for a few hours.
She’d lied about the errands. What should she do for the rest of the afternoon? She had to go to the bank, she had hardly any money in her wallet.
Was the
re any money in the bank? She should have asked Michael more about their finances in the past few days, but they’d reached some sort of polite truce that Polly was loath to disturb.
Certainly she couldn’t go shopping. She’d given her word that she would cut back and she meant to keep it. Where could she go, what could she do, that didn’t cost money? Art galleries, she decided. She’d tour the art galleries, big established ones as well as the little ones that exhibited work from unknown artists. She and Michael used to do that sometimes on Saturday afternoons when Susannah was at a movie with her friends.
Michael had always insisted that Polly’s work would someday be displayed in a gallery, she remembered wistfully. He’d been her biggest fan. Twice, with Michael’s encouragement, Polly had taken a portfolio of her sketches to one of the galleries. Both times the owner had commented that although her work showed promise, it wasn’t what he was looking for. In other words, it wasn’t good enough.
After the second disappointment, she’d never tried again, although she’d gone on drawing. She’d stopped when Susannah got sick, and had never drawn again.
So she wasn’t an artist any longer. Michael never mentioned the dozens of sketches of Susannah that she’d turned to face the wall in her studio. He never went in there anymore. She hardly did herself. It was another portion of her life that had ended abruptly.
But she could still look at other people’s work and appreciate it. She could still dream, she assured herself now. Dreams were free, and fortunately visiting galleries was, as well.
If only she had someone to go with her, someone with whom to share her impressions the way she used to with Michael. A terrible aloneness came over her, and she longed for him, for the intimacy of intellect and heart and imagination they used to share. She felt almost as if he’d gone on a trip to a far country, a place where she couldn’t follow.
Most of the afternoon was unremarkable. The art she viewed was technically good, but it didn’t resonate viscerally. It started to rain as she was heading for Concepts, a new, small gallery on Fourth Avenue, and finding a parking spot on the busy street was difficult. When at last she left the car in a lot blocks from the gallery, she hesitated before she stepped out into the downpour. Maybe she should just go home.
Pickin Clover Page 15
