The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society

by Darien Gee

  “It’s called a napkin. Get the beef brisket, Isabel.”

  “I’ll regret it tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like you’re regretting it already. Come on—life’s too short.”

  Isabel sighs. “Life is too short so I should eat beef brisket? Maybe I should put that on a bumper sticker.”

  Yvonne grins. “Why not? Just don’t make it a question. Make it a statement: Life is short—eat beef brisket!”

  The women laugh as the manager, Arnold Fritz, emerges from the kitchen looking distraught. “Sorry, folks, but we have to close early tonight. I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.”

  There’s a collective groan, the loudest one being from Isabel.

  “How come?” someone demands.

  “What about my skirt steak?” someone else wants to know.

  “Can I still get dessert?”

  “What about my beer? Can I finish my beer?”

  Arnold holds up his hands. “It’s a plumbing issue, folks. Nothing major, but it’ll shut us down for the night. I can’t get anyone to come out and take a look until the morning and I’m not comfortable having a full house under the circumstances. The waitresses will hand out rain checks—fifteen percent off the next time you come in. Sorry for your trouble.”

  There’s more grumbling as patrons begin to gather their things.

  “There’s always the Pizza Shack,” Isabel says with a sigh, tossing the menu aside. “Or McDonald’s.”

  Yvonne notices the manager talking with the bartender. She eats another cashew, then slides off the stool and walks over. “You’re having plumbing problems?”

  Arnold nods. “Really slow drains. Company came out last month to clear the grease traps but something’s going on. I’d rather lose a little business than have a major problem on my hands.”

  “Same thing happened at the last place I worked in Barrett,” the bartender says. He starts to clear the discarded glasses on the bar, waves to a few customers as they pass by.

  “I’d be happy to take a look,” Yvonne offers. “No promises, but I can see if your grease trap is the culprit.”

  “The grease trap?” Arnold chuckles, amused. “While I appreciate your offer, miss, the grease trap is not some little doohicky inside the kitchen.”

  “I know what a grease trap is,” Yvonne says. It doesn’t bother her that the manager of the Avalon Grill assumes she doesn’t know a thing about plumbing. “I’m a licensed plumber in the state of Illinois. Yvonne Tate, Tate Plumbing.” She digs in her purse, a small glittery thing that seems a bit impractical at the moment, and hands him a business card.

  “Let her take a look, Arnold,” the bartender suggests. “In Barrett it backed up into the kitchen—it was a real mess, shut us down for two weeks. We had to have the health inspector come out again.”

  Isabel is behind her now, looking as flummoxed as Arnold. “What’s going on?”

  Arnold looks at her and back at Yvonne, who is holding out her hand. He shakes his head as he shakes her hand. “I’m not sure, but I think this little lady is going to look at my grease trap out back.”

  “This little lady is,” Yvonne confirms, reaching for another handful of nuts. Isabel seems less enthusiastic but Yvonne tugs her along, following Arnold through the kitchen and out the back door.

  It takes her all of five minutes to conclude that whoever pumped their grease trap did a lousy job. “If they pumped a month ago, it shouldn’t be this full,” Yvonne says. Isabel is next to her with her nose pinched. Generally restaurants the size of the Avalon Grill would need to have their grease traps cleaned four times a year, so missing a cleaning or doing a lousy job could end up with disastrous results. “Are they snaking the lines into the kitchen, too?”

  “I thought so,” Arnold says. “But obviously not. I don’t want to bad-mouth anyone, small town and all, but I’m not happy with the company we’re using. They’re the biggest outfit around but I guess that doesn’t mean they’re the best.”

  “I’d look into another company,” Yvonne advises. She doesn’t do grease traps, doesn’t have the tank or equipment to properly flush the lines or pump out the fats and other food solids that have to be treated after they’re removed from the premises. But she knows what a clean grease trap looks like, and this isn’t one of them. “You made the right call, Arnold. If left for too long you’d be looking at hydrogen sulfide gas, which is not only dangerous but could accelerate decay of the trap itself.” If Arnold is able to get a company out first thing in the morning, it will take all of thirty minutes to get the grease trap properly serviced and maintained.

  “Thank God, I was worried there for a second. I can’t afford to lose this job and—” Arnold lets out a deep breath, offers them both a sheepish smile. “I guess there’s always that not knowing, huh? If you made the right choice or not? It’s a relief to know you made the right decision.”

  The two women look at each other, then look away, each lost in their own thoughts.

  “Yeah,” Yvonne says, and suddenly she can’t wait to get out of there, to end this conversation, to crawl in between the sheets of her own bed, to close her eyes to this day that’s beginning to fill with old memories she’d rather forget. “You’re lucky. Because sometimes you never get to know.”

  “Fran, what are you doing?” Reed looks bewildered as Frances bursts through the door with the boys in tow, their arms laden with shopping bags. Reed puts down the book he is reading.

  “Mom is nuts,” Nick says, dropping his load onto the couch. “She bought everything in the store.”

  Frances shoots her oldest a look. At eight, Nick is already tall and gangly, still a boy but with occasional glimpses of becoming a young man. It’s too fast, Frances used to think, but now she’s just annoyed. “Nick, that’s not true.”

  “It is true,” Noah declares, lugging a large plastic bag behind him. “Me and Nick were bored. Right, Nick?”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Nick is quick to disappear to his room.

  Brady trails in last, sucking on a lollipop. Reed scoops him up, then frowns. “His tongue is blue.”

  “Well, the lollipop is blue.” Frances hurries to put things away before Reed can get a good look.

  “Didn’t Dr. Tindell say Brady needed to lay off the sweets?” he calls after her. “He already has one cavity.”

  “I know, I know. But they were giving them out at the shoe store. I couldn’t exactly say no.” The truth is that she could have said no, but it was easier just to give in. She gives her youngest a hopeful smile. “We’ll go brush our teeth, won’t we, Brady?”

  Brady gives a solemn nod. Reed deposits him on the ground and Brady takes off for the living room. “Hey, champ, I need you to stay in the kitchen with that,” he says.

  Brady ignores him.

  “BRADY.” Reed’s voice is loud but calm. Brady does an immediate 180 and heads back to the kitchen, plopping himself down on a stool as he finishes his lollipop.

  Frances breathes a sigh. It’s easier managing the boys when Reed is around, all the testosterone playing off one another.

  Noah is tugging at a large garbage bag filled with something almost as tall as him. “Look, Dad!” He starts to pull it off before Frances can stop him.

  Reed stares at it. “Um, Frances?”

  Frances clears her throat. She hadn’t meant to bring it in, but she’d lost track of what was where and who had what.

  “A dollhouse?” he says, his voice louder. “It’s practically bigger than our house! Where are you going to put it?”

  Frances feels guilty, and then defensive. The plan was to move the home office into the living room but there’s not enough space and they haven’t had a chance to figure out how to make it work. The desk is next to the couch in the living room but the file cabinets are still in the office because Reed didn’t want the younger boys getting into them. The office is already half full with a princess bed and canopy, a matching dresser, toys, and a closet crammed with clothes.

/>   Noah crouches on his knees and peers inside. “The doors open and everything. And look!” He presses the small doorbell and there’s a chime. “It works!”

  Reed is shaking his head. “Frances …”

  “Reed, I know,” she begins, but then she can’t help herself. “I saw an ad in the paper for a used dollhouse and I thought I’d take a look, just to get an idea. I wasn’t planning on buying it, but then someone else showed up and wanted it because it’s such a great deal and in good shape and …”

  “Noah, take Brady and go play in the living room.” Reed points, his voice firm. A couple seconds later, both boys are gone.

  Frances slides into a chair. Their kitchen does seem dwarfed by the dollhouse, giving her a sense of being Alice in Wonderland. The euphoria that’s followed her all day has dissipated and now she isn’t sure where they can even put the dollhouse, much less all of the other things she bought. She wishes she could start over.

  “I’m sorry, Reed. I know I’ve been getting a bit carried away. I’ve had so much on my mind lately with Mei Ling coming …”

  Reed closes his eyes. “Frances, we need to talk.”

  She stares at him. “You have to travel again.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Mei Ling. About her medical report.” A foreboding manila envelope is in the center of the table.

  Frances swallows. “Is that it?”

  He nods.

  Frances reaches for it, then hesitates. “It’s what we thought, right? What they originally said?”

  Reed opens his eyes. “Do you want me to tell you or do you want to read it for yourself?”

  She doesn’t know. News, even bad news, is always easier when it comes from Reed, but Frances doesn’t want to find out that way. Not for this.

  She picks up the envelope but doesn’t open it. “Reed, we’re past the halfway point now. It won’t be that much longer, and then she’ll be with us. There are families that have been waiting much longer than us. Most China adoptions are taking five years, some are predicting up to ten. It’s a miracle that this is even happening, you know.”

  “It’s happening quickly because we agreed to take a waiting child,” Reed says. “A special needs child.”

  “Not that cleft palate is special needs,” Frances corrects. “And you saw her! She looked wonderful, the surgery had obviously gone well.”

  A shadow crosses over Reed’s face. “Mei Ling didn’t have surgery for cleft palate, Fran. That wasn’t—isn’t—her condition.”

  “What do you mean?” Frances frowns. She lifts the flap of the envelope and pulls out a thin sheaf of documents. The original medical report, written in Chinese, and the translation. Frances skims it, the color draining from her face. Her hand flies to her mouth and she finds herself gasping for air, unable to breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” Reed says, leaning toward her, but she pushes him away, shakes her head.

  “No,” she whispers. She’s shaking.

  “I called the agency as soon as I read the report. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait. I had to know.” He gets up and goes to the sink, pours her a glass of water. When he comes back, he crouches next to her. “Mei Ling has congenital heart disease. She’s going to need open heart surgery, among other things, and even then her prognosis …” His voice trails off.

  Frances shakes her head, still unable to believe it. “But how … I mean, I didn’t—we didn’t …”

  “The agency doesn’t know how it happened, but it happened. They assigned us a child with a complicated medical history that is far beyond what we said we were able to take on.”

  “Is there another family waiting for her? Or another child waiting for us?”

  A pained look crosses Reed’s face. “Frances, don’t do this. This was a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Is there? Was she supposed to be referred to someone else?”

  He sighs. “No.”

  “Is there another child that was supposed to be referred to us?”

  Another sigh. “No, but we’re still at the top of the list and it shouldn’t take long to get a new referral. The agency will straighten it out with the Chinese government so we’re not penalized in any way because they gave us the wrong child.”

  At this Frances jerks up. “She is not the wrong child, Reed! She’s ours. You know she is!”

  Reed doesn’t respond, but moves to the chair next to hers and falls into it heavily.

  “You said you knew she was the one,” Frances says, remembering his wet eyes, his goofy grin when they called their parents on the phone to give them the good news.

  Reed closes his eyes and turns away from her. Reed has never turned away from her in the twelve years they’ve been married. Frances wants to burst into tears.

  “I thought she was,” he says. “But now I’m not so sure.”

  Frances feels as if she’s being ripped apart. How can this be happening? How can any of this be happening? “What are you saying, Reed?”

  “I’m saying that we shouldn’t accept Mei Ling’s referral. I’m saying no, Frances. I’m sorry.”

  Abilene Gould, 26

  Temporary Secretary

  “Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?”

  “I’m looking for an Abilene Gould. Is she available?”

  Abilene frowns. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  There’s a guffaw. “Abby, it’s me. Mr. Whatley. I’m yanking your chain, girl! Just wanted to make sure you were on top of the phones.”

  Abilene turns to glance back at her boss’s office. Sure enough, there he is, laughing his head off. “Very funny, Mr. Whatley,” she says, waving gamely.

  She disconnects the call and punches the button for the first line. “Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?”

  “It’s me again!” comes the familiar chortle.

  She disconnects and punches another button, already filled with dread. “Avalon Drywall, this is …”

  “You get an A-plus, Abby. You’re an ace on the phones. Now if only people were actually calling. Come back here a moment, will ya?”

  Abilene sighs and reaches for a pad of paper. It’s her second temp job and the agency told her that Avalon Drywall is going out of business so the position is on a day-to-day basis. They don’t have anything lined up for her after that so she’s back to square one, circling ads in the newspapers and trying to squeeze in interviews whenever she can.

  Dick Whatley is leaning back in his chair, balling up blank invoices and tossing them into the trash. “Score!” he shouts when he gets one in.

  Abilene settles herself in the chair in front of his desk. “Yes, Mr. Whatley?”

  “You’re a smart girl, Abby. Noticed that the minute you walked in. So I’m sorry to tell you that today’s your last day.” He smiles but it’s a struggle, his bravado gone. “I’m closing up shop tomorrow. Gonna pack everything up.” He gestures to the walls where pictures and plaques of recognition and community service have hung proudly for years. “This was my father’s business,” he says, pointing to one photo. “He built it from the ground up. He managed to weather two recessions. I wish I could say the same.” He picks up a framed photo on his desk and shows it to Abilene. “Those are my girls. My wife, Ann Marie, and my little girl, Tiffany. Though she’s not a little girl anymore—she’s sixteen. I haven’t had a chance to put a new picture in.”

  “It’s a nice picture,” Abilene says politely.

  “So, I know you’ve only been here a couple of days but I’m happy to write a recommendation, say that you impressed me from the get-go. It’d be the truth. I hope you find something that you like, something good.” He starts piling the papers on his desk, then stops and looks around, suddenly overwhelmed. “I have to be out by Saturday. Thought it would be quick, you know? But I haven’t been able to do much of anything. I’ve already sold the furniture and the file cabine
ts, most of my equipment. Movers come tomorrow to take everything where it needs to go. But my files and personal belongings—well, I’ve yet to make a dent in things. I guess I’ll be up all night packing up and ferrying things back and forth over the next few days.”

  Abilene swallows, can see the sadness on Mr. Whatley’s face. He’s a portly man, a bit rough around the edges, but nice. She can see that at one time business was booming, that he held a position of respect in the community. He has a lot to be proud of, but in the face of the devastating close of his business, it’s hard to see any of that.

  “I’d be happy to come in and help you,” she offers.

  “Oh, I appreciate that, Abby, but I can’t afford to pay the agency past today.” He powers down his computer and the sound is so depressing they both slump down a little lower in their chairs.

  Abilene forces herself to sit upright, fastens on a bright smile. “You wouldn’t have to pay me,” she tells him. “I don’t have anything going on anyways. I’d much rather stay busy and I’d like to help you.”

  For a second his face brightens. But then he shakes his head. “No, no. It’s my business, I should be the one to do the work.”

  “Okay, Mr. Whatley. I understand.” But Abilene finds herself drawn to the pictures on the wall, to the framed dollar bill, to an autographed photo of Mr. Whatley and his father posing with the governor of Illinois. There’s a timeline, too, and three different graphic renditions of how the logo has changed over time. Abilene can’t imagine the despair Mr. Whatley must feel at having to take it all down and put it away.

  And that’s when it hits her.

  A few weeks ago she’d stood outside the Pick and Save, relishing a yellow gumball. She’d come back from yet another disappointing interview and the globe of glass, filled with large, multicolored gumballs, beckoned her. She fished around in her purse until she came up with a quarter, then slid it into the slot and turned the knob. There was a satisfying crunch of machinery and then the sound of a gumball falling into the dispenser. Abilene opened the little door and popped a yellow gumball into her mouth. She felt, for the moment at least, a wave of simple happiness overcome her.