by Ann Tatlock
“Miss Charlotte’s place?” Mom asked. I noted the relief on her face, and congratulated myself on confronting this possible intruder when Wally wasn’t there to do it.
Lyle Monroe nodded. “It’s a boardinghouse way up on the north side of town. Not many such houses left, but Miss Charlotte, she’s a fixture around here. Like I say, I plan to take a room there for a little while, till I can get myself settled into a teaching job.”
“I see,” Mom said. “What do you teach, Mr. Monroe?”
“Elementary ed, which means I teach a little of everything – math, science, reading. That’s what I was doing in Bolivia on the mission compound. Teaching the missionary kids.”
“You like teaching, then?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Anthony. I love it. I love the whole idea of influencing young lives, helping to shape young minds. When the kids grow up and get back to you years later and let you know that you made a difference in their lives . . . well, there’s just not much that’s better than that.”
Mom nodded, took a sip of her coffee, gave me a small grateful smile. As long as Lyle Monroe didn’t plan to live with us, Mom was happy. We were glad to have Tillie to help out around the house, but one Monroe under our roof was all that we could manage.
chapter
37
As soon as Lyle Monroe got a room at Miss Charlotte’s, Tillie decided to take him some warm clothes, fresh linens, and a lemon meringue pie. Mom gave Tillie the use of the car, and on a wintry mid-January evening she and I headed out to Cisco Avenue on the northern edge of Mills River.
“I’ve never been up this way,” I mentioned. I peered out the window at the once elegant houses that now looked old and weary.
“No, I’ve never had reason to come up here much myself,” Tillie said. “This used to be where the rich folks lived, but now it’s more or less gone to seed. Most of these old houses have been divided up into apartments, and some of them have just plain been abandoned. See that one over there, how it’s all boarded up?”
I nodded. “Too bad. It looks like it was a pretty place once.”
“It was. Plenty of beautiful houses around here, once upon a time. The house where Lyle’s living now belonged to Charlotte Ramsey’s family for several generations. She was a Bigelow originally, and they were one of the oldest families in Mills River. The house became hers when she married Richard Ramsey, and that’s where they lived till he went off to war and got himself shot down over Germany. He left poor Charlotte a childless widow.”
“She never got married again?”
“No, she never did. But she wanted to keep that big old house of hers, so she turned it into a boardinghouse. Pretty smart of her in the long run, since there was a housing shortage after the war. Plenty of young newlyweds looking for a place to live, so her rooms were always full. Still are, far as I know, though she has the reputation of running a tight ship. No drinking, no bad language, and no mixing with the opposite sex if you happen not to be married. One infringement of the rules will get you kicked out fast as greased lightning.”
“She sounds pretty strict.”
“Strict but fair. I’ve known Charlotte a long time. She had the makings of a good mother, had she been so blessed. As it is, she’s kind of a mother hen to all her boarders, no matter how old they might be.”
A slivered moon had risen and a light snow was falling by the time we reached Cisco Avenue. I was captivated by the old gas lamps, now electric, that cast dim circles of light along the street. Snowflakes tumbled through each glowing circle, and I thought of dandelions casting off their pods in the wind.
“The snow looks pretty,” I said, leaning closer to the passenger side window.
Tillie nodded as she parallel parked in front of a large brick house with a wraparound porch. “Well, here we are. This is Charlotte’s place. Now listen, the north side isn’t the safest part of town, Roz, so just keep your wits about you.”
“Why’d you bring me here if it isn’t safe?”
“Well, I don’t mean that it isn’t safe exactly. I just mean, if anything were ever to happen in Mills River, this is where it would happen. Though, of course, it’s not going to happen. Then again, if it did happen and we got mugged or assaulted or something unthinkable like that, I suppose it would give Captain Strang something to do, since there’s so little crime in this town. Think of the taxes we pay while our officers spend most of their time writing traffic tickets and rescuing cats out of trees. But then again, I like it that way. Don’t you?”
Tillie looked at me and I looked at her, and after a long while I said, “Sometimes I think you’re really strange, Tillie.”
“And you’re entitled to your opinion,” she replied. “Now, help me by carrying the pie while I grab the bundles of clothes and linens.”
Miss Charlotte herself answered Tillie’s knock on the door. She was a tiny wisp of a woman, clothed in a dark dress, thick stockings, and black tie-up shoes. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, and her steel gray eyes peered at us sharply from behind tiny oval-shaped lenses. When she recognized Tillie, she smiled. “Why, Tillie Monroe,” she said amiably, opening the door wider so we could step into the foyer. “I’ve been expecting you to come by, now that your boy Lyle is here.”
“I hope he’s not giving you any trouble, Charlotte,” Tillie said. She sounded stern, but I could tell she was trying to suppress a smile.
“Oh my, no!” Miss Charlotte exclaimed, hands thrown up in the air. “He’s a good boy, that Lyle. Always has been. I imagine you’re glad to have him back home again.”
“You’ve got that right, Charlotte. Not that I was unhappy about him doing the Lord’s work in Bolivia, of course – ”
“Of course not, dear – ”
“But I missed him – ”
“I’m sure you did – ”
“And I’m just as glad to have him back home.”
Miss Charlotte nodded knowingly. “People belong at home, I always say. No use traipsing all over the globe. You’ll never find any place as good as home.”
With that, Tillie and Miss Charlotte both sighed happily. They spent the next several minutes talking pleasantries while I peered into the rooms on either side of the hall. On one side was a large formal parlor, where a middle-aged woman sat knitting in a wing chair beside an empty fireplace. Knitting needles clacking, she chattered away to a man who was hidden from view behind a fully opened newspaper. On the other side of the hall was a room of equal size, slightly less formal, in which four people sat at a folding table playing cards. The smoke from their cigarettes curled upward from the table and settled in a wispy haze over much of the room. Their occasional laughter, sudden and piercing, cut a swath through the otherwise quiet night.
My attention was snapped back to the hallway when Tillie, apparently remembering I was there, introduced me to Miss Charlotte. “This is Roz Anthony,” she said. She pointed toward me with an elbow, since both hands were occupied with the linens and Lyle’s clothes. “She and her family live with me now.”
Miss Charlotte looked pleased. “How lovely!” she exclaimed. “I’ve hated to think of you all alone in that big old house since . . . well, since Ross left us, God rest his soul.”
“Yes, Ross would be happy to know there’s a family in the house again,” Tillie remarked.
“That he would,” Miss Charlotte agreed. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you . . . I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Roz,” I said. “Short for Rosalind.”
“I see. Pretty name. And what’s that you’ve got there? A pie, is it?”
“Lemon meringue,” Tillie interjected. “Lyle’s favorite. He hasn’t had a taste of lemon pie since his last furlough two years ago. I baked it up special for him today.”
“Lovely! Well, you’ll want to go deposit that in the refrigerator right away, then, little lady,” Miss Charlotte said.
“Where is it?” I asked timidly.
She raised an
arm and pointed toward the back of the house. “Right down this hall, straight back. You may need to move a few things around in the refrigerator to make room.”
“When you’re finished with that, Roz,” Tillie said, “meet me upstairs in Lyle’s room.”
“Which one is that?” I asked, suddenly feeling lost and overwhelmed in this big old house filled with strangers.
Miss Charlotte swung her arm around to the stairs. “Straight up, turn left, and it’s the first room on the right.”
Tillie nodded at me, my signal to go on to the kitchen. I almost asked her to come with me but decided against it. I moved uneasily from her side and down the hall. The slightly sloping hardwood floor squeaked beneath my feet. Off to the left two women sipped tea at a table in the dining room, a smattering of dirty dishes scattered nearby. On the right a door hung open to a dark walk-in pantry beneath the staircase; I scurried past, afraid of what might jump out at me.
Finally I stepped into the expansive kitchen at the back of the house, a tidy well-polished room with modern appliances, including a sunny yellow refrigerator on the far wall. On one side of the kitchen, beneath a window with frilly white curtains, was a small round table where a man sat eating, his back to me. I’d have to walk past him to get to the fridge. Lowering my gaze, I stepped gingerly across the room, trying to keep the soles of my shoes from slapping too sharply against the linoleum floor. I wanted to get in and get out without bothering the man eating his supper. With only a couple of steps to go, I heard someone softly call my name.
I stopped and slowly turned around. In the next moment I found myself staring into the eyes of the man at the table, the startled and puzzled eyes of Alan Anthony, my daddy.
The glass of water in his hand came crashing down against the tabletop. For a second I thought it might have shattered into a million pieces, but when he took his hand away, the glass was still intact. Daddy ran trembling fingers through his hair and swore quietly. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I-I . . .”
“Is your mother here?” He looked back over his shoulder in search of her.
I shook my head.
“Who are you here with?”
My tongue was thick with fear, my mouth dry. “Just Tillie,” I whispered.
“Who?”
“Tillie. The lady that helps take care of us.”
He glanced again toward the entrance to the kitchen, then back at me. “Why are you here?”
I lifted the pie an inch or so, as though that explained everything. “I’m putting this in the fridge.”
An oath from Daddy let me know I’d given him the wrong answer. He stood and grabbed my arm. I thought I might drop the pie, so I tightened my grip on the rim of the aluminum pan.
“Tell me what you’re doing in this house,” Daddy demanded.
His wild eyes terrified me. “I’m just . . . I’m just . . .” I started to cry. “You’re hurting my arm!”
He glared at me, his breathing quick and shallow. Then, as though something passed over him, his eyes calmed and he loosened his grip. “I’m sorry, Roz. Here, give me the pie.”
He took it to the refrigerator and moved around a few milk bottles and other containers to make a place for it. After shutting the door and giving me another long look, he sat back down and pulled me to him. “Listen, Roz, stop crying, all right?” He wiped my eyes with the paper napkin, used and crumpled, beside his plate. Putting both hands on my shoulders, he said evenly, “I need you to tell me what you’re doing here.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”
“Just what, Roz?”
“Tillie and I just brought some stuff to her son. That’s all.”
“Her son?”
I nodded. “He lives here now. He just moved in yesterday.”
Daddy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s his name?”
“Mr. Monroe.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Lyle.”
“Lyle Monroe,” Daddy repeated. His eyes moved to the side as his thoughts pulled him away from me.
I waited for several long seconds before asking quietly, “Daddy, is this where you live?”
He came back to me then but didn’t answer. Somebody stepped into the kitchen and Daddy stiffened. He picked up his fork and stabbed at a piece of meat on the plate in front of him.
“Good evening, Mr. Knutson,” the man said. He spoke with his back to us as he poured a cup of coffee from the percolator on the stove.
“Evening, Mr. Wainwright,” Daddy said.
I looked at Daddy for direction; he was nodding toward the door, sending me away with his eyes. I took one step but stopped when Mr. Wainwright said, “You have a visitor tonight?”
Daddy chewed slowly, then took a long drink of water. “Naw,” he said finally, pretending to laugh. “If you mean the kid – she belongs to someone else.” To me, he said, “I’ll make sure no one eats the pie you brought for Mr. Monroe.”
My eyes darted from Daddy to Mr. Wainwright and back to Daddy again. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Daddy nodded and went back to eating. Mr. Wainwright smiled at me as he stirred sugar into his coffee.
“Mr. Monroe,” Mr. Wainwright said thoughtfully, the spoon scraping circles along the bottom of the cup. “He’s the one who moved in yesterday, isn’t he?”
He looked at me, waiting for an answer. He was a tall and incredibly round man, with a waist like a redwood tree. I nodded at him, saying nothing, fearing that if he caught me in a lie he could snuff me out like a tiny gnat pinched between his sausagelike fingers.
“Mr. Knutson there,” he said with a smile toward Daddy, “he and I are getting to be the old-timers around here. Isn’t that right, Nelson?”
“Yeah, I guess we are,” Daddy agreed. He didn’t look up from his food.
Mr. Wainwright laid the spoon in the sink and took a long sip of coffee. “Well, back to the game. I’m down ten dollars, but this next hand’s mine. I can feel it.”
“Yeah, well, good luck, then,” Daddy said.
The stranger left. The other stranger who looked like my daddy stayed seated at the table, eating quietly.
“Daddy?”
“Go on, Roz, scoot,” he said. “I’ll talk with you later.”
“But – ”
“I said go on.”
I didn’t want to go; I wanted answers. But Daddy wouldn’t look at me, let alone talk to me. I moved stiffly toward the hall, walking slowly, feeling unbearably heavy as I dragged all of my questions out of the kitchen with me.
chapter
38
“I found out where my daddy’s living.”
The words were nearly lost to the din and clatter of the school cafeteria. Lately Mara’s homeroom class and mine had been assigned to the same lunch period, so we always sat together. Mara stopped poking at her lima beans long enough to ask loudly, “What’d you say?”
I looked around and leaned in closer. “My dad . . . he’s living at a boardinghouse owned by some old lady named Miss Charlotte.”
Mara’s eyes widened and her mouth followed suit. “How’d you find out?”
I told her how I’d seen Daddy there the previous night, adding that before I could go upstairs and find Tillie, I had to press my forehead against the cold glass of the front door window until my heart stopped beating crazily and I could breathe normally again.
“So,” Mara said, “he acted like he was mad you found him?”
“Well, yeah,” I said reluctantly. “I guess he was surprised to see me.”
“He doesn’t want you to know where he lives, does he?”
I tried to look nonchalant by shrugging my shoulders and taking a bite of fish stick before answering. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
“I bet he’ll move now.”
“Why should he move? I’m not going to tell anyone he’s there.”
“Yeah, but think about it, Roz.
He doesn’t want that guy, what’s his name – Tillie’s son – going to your house and blabbing about some guy named Alan Anthony living at the boardinghouse.”
“He won’t because Daddy’s not using his real name. I think he’s told everyone his name’s Nelson Knutson.”
“Nelson Knutson?”
I nodded.
“What kind of name is that? It sounds like something a magician would say . . . you know, like abracadabra.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. You know, I’m waving my magic wand and . . . Nelson Knutson! . . . there’s a rabbit in my hat!”
I narrowed my eyes and sneered at Mara. “Only you would think of something like that.”
She smiled confidently.
“Listen, Mara,” I went on, “up in Minnesota Knutson is kind of like Smith. I mean, practically everyone’s named Knutson up there. We had a guy on our street named Nelson Knutson, but he died in a car wreck just before we moved.”
Mara’s smile faded. She looked at me a long time before saying, “This is giving me the creeps, Roz.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“You don’t like what?”
“This whole thing with your daddy, his coming down here and telling everybody he’s someone he’s not. Plus, he chooses the name of some dead guy. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?”
I started to lift the milk carton to my lips, but my stomach was churning. I set it back down on the tray. “You know,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about that. He doesn’t want Mom to know he’s in Mills River yet, so he has to use another name. That’s all. It makes sense to me.”
“Uh-huh.” She looked unconvinced. “And has he really quit drinking?”
“He says he has.”
“But do you know for sure?”
“How can I? I hardly ever see him. But when I do see him, he isn’t drunk.”
“Yeah, well, I guess not. He’s not going to want you to see him drunk.”
I looked up at the large institutional clock on the cafeteria wall, hanging there above the garbage cans where we dumped our uneaten food. The bell would ring soon, signaling the end of lunch and sending Mara and me our separate ways until midafternoon recess.
