by Ann Tatlock
“Good question, Fred.”
“He said he had only your best interest at heart.”
“So he pulled that one on you too, huh?”
Fred slammed the butcher knife into the beef and came to meet us at the counter. He was shaking his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Monroe, but if I had a nice lady like you for a mother, I sure wouldn’t stick her in some old folks home.”
“Thank you, Fred. If Johnny tries to do it again, I’ll disown him and adopt you.”
Fred smiled, looking genuinely pleased. “And how’s the hip, Mrs. Monroe?”
“Good as new,” she said. “It only aches when it’s going to rain. I’ve got a built-in barometer now, which comes in rather handy.”
The butcher responded with a belly laugh. “You were always one to find the silver lining! If only we were all so inclined. Most of my customers, they come in here moaning and complaining, not a good word about anything. Well, you know how it is, Mrs. Monroe.”
“That I do. I never put much stock in complaining.” She nodded toward the industrial-sized butcher block. “I see you’ve hired an apprentice.”
Fred looked over his shoulder, then back at Tillie. “He’s a good boy, a good hard worker.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Fred. These two girls here are his sisters.”
I heard Tillie introduce me, but I was busy staring at Wally. He wore a large bibbed apron that was colored with blood, streaks of dark red splattered across a white canvas. I wrinkled my nose at the sight of it. Wally saw me and held up both hands so I could see his palms; they glistened with the same sticky redness. He smiled. I frowned.
“Wally,” Tillie hollered, “come on over here and wrap up five of your best pork chops for me. We’ll have those for supper tonight.”
Wally sauntered over, wiping his hands on the apron. He didn’t speak, but he picked out five pork chops from the refrigerated display case and wrapped them in sheets of white paper. He handed them to Fred, who handed them to Tillie.
As she took the chops, Tillie said, “You know, Wally, you could at least say hello to us, instead of pretending you don’t know us.”
Wally shrugged as he moved back to the butcher block. I knew how he felt about Tillie.
Fred glanced at Wally, then turned back to Tillie with that look that said, Kids. What can you do with them? “So listen, while I got him here under my thumb, we’ll work on the manners, all right? He’s a good kid, just a little rough around the edges. Now, tell you what, Mrs. Monroe, you accept the chops as a gift, a housewarming gift from everyone at Jewel to you.”
“Well, thank you, Fred. That’s very kind of you.”
“Now that you’re back in your house, you need to celebrate, right?”
“Come to think of it, I believe you’re right. If I were a drinking gal, I’d buy some champagne.”
“If you buy some champagne, I can promise you, plenty of people will come and celebrate with you.”
Tillie and the butcher laughed loudly, but I was ready to leave. I didn’t like seeing Wally covered in blood. Something about it gave me a feeling of dread.
Valerie must have sensed the same thing, because she started to fuss, which thankfully pulled Tillie’s attention away from Fred. We hurried through the rest of our shopping, checked out with Hazel, who plied Tillie with coupons, then loaded the wagon back up with Valerie and our sack of groceries, and headed out.
We were on Grand Avenue not far from Marie’s Apparel when I was startled by a familiar figure in the distance. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, wearing gray slacks, a blue cotton shirt, and a fishing hat. He was walking away from us, so I couldn’t see his face, but it was the hat that caught my eye.
I stopped abruptly, my sneakers anchored to the sidewalk by my own uncertainty.
Tillie took a few more steps before she realized I wasn’t keeping up. She stopped and looked back at me. “What’s the matter, Roz?”
I didn’t answer. The man had turned a corner and disappeared. Or, I told myself, maybe I was just seeing things and he hadn’t really been there at all. I was hot and tired and hungry, and Mom said sometimes when you’re not feeling quite right, your mind can play tricks on you. Even if the man was real, lots of men wore fishing hats, didn’t they? The tan hemp kind with the one brown strip around the base and all the artificial lures fastened to it like Christmas tree ornaments.
“What is it, Roz?” Tillie asked again.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
After all, Daddy was hundreds of miles away in Minnesota, wasn’t he?
chapter
5
The next morning I awoke with a sore throat and a fever. Mom stood over my bed, frowning as she shook the thermometer down.
“I haven’t found a doctor for the children yet,” she said to Tillie, who was plumping up my pillow with her beefy fists.
“She doesn’t need a doctor,” Tillie said. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Maybe I should stay home, though, and – ”
“Nonsense.” Tillie slid an arm under my shoulders, lifted me high enough to slip the pillow back under my head, and lowered me down again. “You go on in to work and don’t worry for a minute. I know how to care for a sick child.”
In spite of the fever, a small chill ran up my spine. Visions of castor oil and mustard packs flashed through my head.
Tillie tapped my shoulder with one finger. “I never put much stock in castor oil,” she said.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
“We’ll start with a cayenne and vinegar gargle and go from there.”
“But I hate vinegar!”
I was talking to her back. She was headed for the door, already on her way to mix up the vile concoction.
I grabbed Mom’s hand. “Don’t go to work, Mom. Please don’t leave me alone with her.” I nodded toward the door through which Tillie had just disappeared.
Mom smiled. “You’ll be fine, honey. Anyway, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid, and we need the money.”
“But, Mom! I don’t want Tillie taking care of me. She’s so . . . well, you know. She’s strange.”
Mom looked thoughtful for a moment. “I know she seems a little eccentric at times, but really, what would I do without her? I’m beginning to think of her as a godsend.”
“I don’t want to gargle any cayenne and vinegar. Mom, please stay home. She’s going to kill me with her poisons.”
Mom laughed. “Oh, Roz, don’t worry. A little vinegar isn’t going to hurt you. And it will probably help. On my way home from work I’ll stop by the drugstore and pick up some throat lozenges.”
I pulled my hand away from Mom’s and slid down under the covers. “You don’t love me, do you?” I moaned.
Mom leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I love you very much, Roz. That’s why I’m working and trying to provide for you.” She straightened up. “Now, it’s getting late, and I’ve got to go. You behave for Tillie, all right?”
As she left the room, I muttered, “Yeah, well, Tillie better behave for me.”
When Tillie returned a few minutes later, she first tied one of Mom’s silk scarves around my neck. “To keep the draughts off,” she said. Then she marched me into the bathroom and handed me the cup of hot water laced with vinegar and cayenne pepper.
“I’ll throw up,” I threatened.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Now gargle.”
I glared at her before resigning myself and giving in. Holding my nose, I took a mouthful and gargled loudly. After spitting it out in the sink, I looked at Tillie and grimaced.
“See,” she said a bit smugly, “you’re still alive and in one piece. So keep going.”
When the gargling was done, she tucked me back in to bed and spent the rest of the morning hovering over me like a mother hen. She fed me bowls of hot chicken broth and cold strawberry Jell-O and vanilla ice cream. From time to time she laid her heavy hand across my brow or poked the thermometer under my tongue to see whet
her the fever had broken. In between waiting on me, she fed and bathed Valerie and entertained her by making rag dolls out of dish towels.
In the early afternoon she came back to my room and announced, “There’s nothing like warm sunshine to burn the cold germs out of a person.” She told me to grab my pillow and follow her out to the porch. I was to lie on the porch swing while she and Valerie sat together on the folding chair.
“At least let me get dressed,” I muttered as I tumbled out of bed.
“Don’t bother. No one will see you.”
“But – ”
“Come on, Roz, while the sun’s at her peak. Don’t dillydally.”
I snatched my pillow and reluctantly followed Tillie downstairs, wishing Wally were home to throw himself between me and this tyrant. How could she make me sit on the front porch in my baby doll pajamas, a silk kerchief tied around my neck like I was some sort of vaudeville dancer? As we passed by the living room, I grabbed a blanket from the couch to use both as a cushion and a cover to hide under.
I spread the blanket over the slats of the porch swing and settled myself on it, my head on the pillow, my knees drawn up to my chest so I fit on the two-seater bench. The sun was hot, but I used a corner of the blanket to cover myself anyway, just in case. Tillie was right, though; the lilac bushes blocked my view of the street and hid me from any passersby on the sidewalk.
Tillie sat on the folding chair and pulled Valerie into her lap. Valerie looked small but content; she leaned easily into the cradle of Tillie’s shoulder and drank grape Kool-Aid drowsily from a small plastic cup.
“You know,” Tillie said wistfully, “I always wanted a girl, but the good Lord didn’t see fit to bless me with one. He gave me three boys instead. But that’s all right. I’m not complaining. Johnny, Paul, and Lyle – they’re three fine boys.”
“Not Johnny,” I reminded her. “He’s awful. He put you in the old folks home.”
Tillie laughed quietly. “No, even Johnny is a good man in his own way. I do get frustrated with him, I admit, but no, I’m proud of and thankful for all my sons. These walls . . .” She nodded her head toward the house behind us. “These walls know. They saw it all. All the years I spent raising my boys – it’s all in there.”
I was just about to ask her what she meant when she raised a hand and waved toward the street. “Hello, Leonard! About time you showed up. Where have you been the last week or more?”
Footsteps hurried up the walkway, and I gasped when a man leapt up to the porch, his shiny black shoes landing hard on the wooden boards. He lifted his mailman’s cap off his balding head and nodded. “Afternoon, Mrs. Monroe. I’ve been gone on a little vacation. Took the family to Niagara Falls and on up into Canada. Just got back yesterday.”
“Well that explains the young fool who’s been delivering our mail. He’s been leaving half the neighbors’ bills here, as if I’m expected to pay them.”
Leonard blinked several times at that, his eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings behind his glasses. “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Monroe,” he said. “That’s Bill Kardashian. He’s new to the post office, and they had him filling in for me while I was gone. I’m sorry for the mix-ups, but he’s just now learning the ropes.”
“Well then, that’s all right. You can be sure those bills found their way to the right houses, though I think the post office owes me some wages for the work I’ve done.”
Leonard’s eyes stopped blinking as they grew impossibly wide, each pupil becoming a dark island in a white sea. He decided to change the subject. “Well, Mrs. Monroe,” he said, clearing his throat with a quick cough. “What are you doing here at the old homestead? You back for a visit?”
“Visiting? No, Leonard. I live here, remember?”
“But I thought – ”
“Doesn’t matter what you thought. What matters is what is. This is my house, and I intend to die here.”
Leonard’s jaw dropped, and from where I lay on the porch swing I could see the fillings in his upper teeth. A long moment passed before he finally said, “Well, all right. Then I ought to be leaving your mail here, same as always.”
“Yes, sir. That’s right. Same as always.”
He momentarily rummaged around in the mailbag slung over his right shoulder and came up with several envelopes. “These are all addressed to a Janis Anthony. I don’t believe I have anything for you today, Mrs. Monroe.”
“That’s all right, Leonard. You tried your best.”
“But now, what do I do with Mrs. Anthony’s mail?”
“You can leave that here too.”
“She lives here with you, then?”
“That’s right. She lives here with me. These are her daughters, Rosalind and Valerie.”
Leonard nodded in my direction. I peeked at him over the rim of the blanket. “How do you do?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. All I could think about was my frilly pajamas and the silk scarf and how Tillie had said no one would see me and how, not ten minutes out on the porch, a strange man was staring at me and asking questions.
“Well, okay,” our mailman said, giving up on me and looking back at Tillie. “So any mail that comes for you or Mrs. Anthony, I leave it all here?”
“That’s right, Leonard. Except if anything comes from Mister Anthony, send it right back to where it came from. I don’t believe Mrs. Anthony would want it.”
Leonard took off his cap and scratched the center of his bald spot. “Well now, I’m not sure I can do that, Mrs. Monroe. Tampering with the mail’s a federal offense, you know.”
“And failing to protect a lady is a moral offense, Leonard, so take your pick.”
Settling his cap back on his head, Leonard tucked the envelopes into the metal mailbox that hung beside the door. He stole another glance at Tillie, then began to back down the porch steps. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, I’d best get back to the route. Nothing stops the mail, you know.”
“Indeed,” Tillie said, but by the time she spoke, Leonard was already gone. “He always was a coward, that one,” she added. “Poor Leonard. It’s pitiful.”
“You think everything’s pitiful, Tillie.”
“No I don’t,” she said. “Not everything. Some things are downright beautiful.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, like – ”
“Yoo-hoo, Tillie!”
Now what? I thought.
“Yoo-hoo, yourself, Esther. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, Tillie. I’ve been out in Sausalito with Jenny for a week, taking care of my newborn twin granddaughters.”
“Twin granddaughters, huh?”
“That’s right. I’m a grandmother now, twice over!”
With that, the person the voice was attached to showed up on the porch. I recognized her as the next-door neighbor who had brought us a macaroni hot dish shortly after we moved in. She was short and plump with ruddy cheeks and a stiff graying haystack of hair at the top of her head.
“Good for you, Esther. Have these girls got any names?”
“Oh my, yes. Both of them named for me.”
“Both of them?”
A nod of the head. “Iris Esther and Lily Esther.”
“Well, of all things,” Tillie said with a wave of her hand. “Sounds like Jenny’s planted a garden instead of giving birth. Though I’m sure they’re beautiful babies.”
“Oh, they are. And I’m not just saying that because I’m their grandmother. Now, who’s that on your lap? Isn’t that Mrs. Anthony’s little girl?”
“It sure is. She’s Valerie and that one over there, she’s Rosalind. You probably met them already, knowing you and your casseroles.”
“Oh yes, in fact I have met them. I made my blue-ribbon recipe for them soon as they moved in – you know, the one that got me first place at the county fair – ”
“Oh yes, that’s a good one, Esther.”
“And I brought it over to Mrs. Anthony warm from
the oven. Fine woman, Mrs. Anthony. I’m glad a nice family moved into your house.”
“Me too, Esther. Roz, can you say hello to Mrs. Kinshaw?”
“Hello.”
The woman nodded at me, then said to Tillie, “You back visiting? Or baby-sitting?”
“No, I’m back living here.”
“You are?”
“Don’t look so shocked, Esther. It’s my house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but – ”
“Ross and I built this place with our own hands.”
“Of course I know that, but – ”
“And I intend to die here.”
“But – ”
“Tillie,” I interrupted.
“Yes, Roz?”
“I think you ought to take out an ad in the newspaper, tell the whole town at once. It would save you from having to repeat yourself.”
“Now, there’s a thought. I believe I’ll look into that.”
Esther Kinshaw stood there with her hands on her hips. “You mean you’re back for good?”
“That’s right.” Tillie nodded.
“And the Anthonys . . . they’re all living here too?”
“Well sure. Why not? This house was built for a whole family.”
“And Johnny let you move out of that nursing home?”
“Pshaw!” Tillie waved a hand. “He had no say. He can’t keep an old woman from dying in her own home.”
I moaned and said, “I’ll call the newspaper for you, Tillie.”
“Never mind that, Roz,” Tillie said, “I’ll do it myself. I’ve known the editor since the day he was born. Yup, little Winston Newberry, now the editor of the Mills River Tribune. Imagine. I used to change his diapers when his mother dropped him off at the church nursery. I’ll never forget it – he had a birthmark on his backside the shape of the Eiffel Tower.”
I pulled the blanket over my head, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“You know,” Mrs. Kinshaw said thoughtfully, “I heard it faded in later years.”
“What’s that, Esther?”
“The birthmark. Winston Newberry’s birthmark. I heard it practically disappeared.”
