Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  “About?”

  Maddie shrugged.

  “Yes, I can see why she’d be disappointed by that.” Syd tapped her spoon against the side of the skillet before returning it to its rest.

  A wonderful medley of intoxicating smells wafted across the room. Maddie’s nostrils flared. “Did you put too much cumin in that again?”

  “No,” Syd replied. “Do you wanna give me a bit more to go on about this thing with Lizzy?”

  “I can’t, really.”

  “Patient confidentiality?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Are you two in disagreement about a diagnosis or course of treatment?”

  Maddie was surprised by Syd’s acuity. But she shouldn’t have been. Syd always managed to cut straight to the chase. “Yes,” she replied. “That’s it exactly.”

  “Is it a situation where you might have to overrule her?”

  Maddie shook her head. “No. In this case, she knows the patient much better than I do.”

  Syd wiped her hands on a towel and picked up her own glass of wine. “This is all pretty ironic. I have a similar kind of dilemma right now with Tom.”

  Maddie slipped with the grater and caught the end of her knuckle on one of its metal protrusions.

  “Damn it!”

  “What happened?”

  “I scraped my knuckle on this implement of torture.” Maddie sucked at her finger.

  “Is it bleeding?” Syd asked.

  Maddie inspected her wound. “A little bit.”

  Syd took another sip of her wine. “Don’t get blood on the cheese.”

  Maddie glowered at her. “Thanks for your concern.”

  Syd blew her a kiss.

  The door to the porch opened and Celine came in carrying a bunch of fresh cilantro. She took note of the standoff between the two chefs as she made her way to the prep sink to wash the herbs.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your daughter just lost her cage fight with the cheese grater,” Syd explained.

  “Grater? What grater?” Celine asked.

  Maddie held it up.

  “Oh, good lord. I thought your father threw that thing away forty years ago.” Celine shook excess water off the herbs. “Why don’t you just use the food processor?”

  “Food processor?” Maddie glared at Syd.

  “Yeah.” Syd poured Celine a glass of wine. “You aren’t checked out on that yet, honey. It has too many moving parts.”

  Maddie rolled her eyes at Syd and regarded her mother.

  “So, Mom? It’s actually nice to see you in the daylight.”

  “Isn’t it?” Celine replied. “I found the prospect of spending an evening with Henry held greater appeal for me than shopping for kitchen fixtures.”

  “Right,” Maddie agreed. “Because those all-night plumbing supply stores tend to be a drag after a while.”

  Celine picked up her wine glass and smiled sweetly at her daughter. “Nice try.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom. Don’t you think it’s time you told us what you’ve been doing every night?”

  “Let me see.” Celine took a moment to consider her answer. “No.”

  Syd laughed.

  “But, you will be happy to know that David and I reached amicable terms on the exchange of assets.”

  “You sold him the land?” Syd asked.

  Celine nodded. “Two acres. Just enough for them to make their land requirement to hold the weddings.” She smiled. “I drove a hard bargain. Ten dollars and a pledge that Michael will supply me with all the shrimp and grits I can eat. Of course, we’ll have to have the land surveyed, but that’s a technicality.”

  Maddie raised an eyebrow. “Not if Gerald Watson has anything to say about it.”

  Celine agreed. “I fail to understand what motivates that man to be such an unrepentant pain in the ass.”

  “That one isn’t hard to figure out.” Syd gave the meat mixture another stir.

  “What do you mean?” Celine asked her.

  “You know I hate to gossip . . .”

  Maddie interrupted her. “But in this case, you’ll make an exception?”

  Syd nodded energetically. “The backstory is that Watson’s late wife was very unhappy in her marriage . . . not hard to imagine. In the years before her death, she became involved with someone else and was planning to leave him.”

  “There was another man?” Maddie asked. “Hard to blame her for that,” she added.

  “Oh, no.” Syd held up an index finger. “Not another man. According to Harold Nicks, the object of Eva’s affection was one Rita Chriscoe.”

  “Another woman?” Maddie shook her head. “Well that explains a lot about the mayor’s proclivities.”

  “Did you say Rita Chriscoe?” Celine asked. “The woman who drives for Cougar’s?”

  Syd nodded. “Yep.”

  “Well, that’s ironic. She’s the woman who’s going to help James move my piano.”

  “Apparently, she used to work at the bowling alley. I gather that’s how she met Eva. She and Harold’s mom were in the same league with Deb and Jocelyn.” Syd shook her head. “Harold said Watson threw a rod when he found out about Eva and Rita. He said it was an epic scandal.”

  Maddie laughed. “Are there any other kinds of scandals in this town?” She regarded her mother. “Word to the wise, here.”

  Celine rolled her eyes. “I’m going to do us both a favor and ignore that.”

  Maddie threw up her hands. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

  “Well right now, I wish you’d go outside and warn David and Henry that we’re about five minutes away from dinner.” Syd collected their wineglasses and carried them to the kitchen table.

  “I’ll do it.” Celine refilled her own glass and left the kitchen.

  “You know I’m right,” Maddie called after her.

  Celine waved a hand over her head before disappearing down the hallway that led to the front door.

  Maddie joined Syd at the table. “Okay, that’s a first.”

  “What’s a first?” Syd looked up at Maddie, who was staring at her with an open mouth.

  “I think Mom just gave me the finger.”

  “Really?” Syd chuckled. “That’s only about forty years overdue.”

  “Forty?”

  “Don’t pout, dear.” Syd reached across the table and patted Maddie’s hand. “You’ve always been an overachiever. Embrace it. Honor it. Make it work for you.”

  “Are you reading those Melody Beattie books again?”

  “I don’t need self-righteous dirges about positive thinking to know what’s best for you.”

  “Well, there’s a true statement.” Maddie was staring down the hallway with a glum expression.

  “Honey?” Syd asked.

  “What?”

  “I wasn’t kidding about turning this into something useful.”

  “Okay.” Maddie sighed. “How do I do that?”

  “Well for starters,” Syd smiled sweetly at her, “go grate more cheese.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Twenty-two and seven. Twenty-two and seven. Twenty-two and seven.

  There were twenty-two boards in seven piles. Twenty-two and seven were right. The load of cut boards made exactly seven piles of twenty-two.

  Buddy stacked the boards in tidy rows along the back wall on the shady side of the porch. Papa told him to pile the boards beside the kitchen door, but he knew this was better. It was going to rain. It always rained on the first of June. Sometimes it rained after lunch, but it always rained before three o’clock.

  Twenty-two and seven. There were two thousand, two hundred and twenty years between Abraham and Jesus. The time of the patriarchs. Sixty-six books in the Bible. Three times twenty-two. God created twenty-two things in the first seven days.

  Twenty-two letters in the Hebrew alphabet. He knew them all. He could say them backwards seven times. He would say them for Henry when they watched TV. Henry liked letters.

 
; Twenty-two and seven.

  Pi. They all called it “pi.” But pi was more numbers. More than they could count. Pi was right. Pi was twelve point one trillion digits. It would wait there until they found more room. But it would always be made from twenty-two and seven.

  Papa came around the corner of the house. “Buddy, why you puttin’ that lumber there?”

  “It’s going to rain.”

  Papa looked at the sky. “It’s not gonna rain.”

  “June 1st. It always rains on June 1st.”

  Papa went back to work.

  Hammers and saws. Papa said we’d go home after the Quiet Lady came.

  The Quiet Lady came every day.

  Twenty-two and seven.

  BERTRAND LEAR TOWNSEND JR.

  Twenty-two letters. Born on seven fifteen. Seven plus fifteen equals twenty-two. One nine eight four. One plus nine plus eight plus four equals twenty-two.

  The Quiet Lady liked music. It played from the radio in her car. Yesterday he counted it. One hundred fifty-seven beats. Half of three-one-four. Half of pi. The car stopped before it could play all of pi. Half of pi was not finished.

  The Quiet Lady needed to finish pi.

  Twenty-two and seven.

  The boards were all stacked now.

  It was time to wait. He knew how to wait. He could count how to wait.

  Soon the Quiet Lady would come. She would finish pi. It would rain and they would all go home.

  Chapter 3

  Henry knew he’d missed the school bus again.

  On days when his daddy had to work late, Buddy would meet him at the bus stop in Troutdale and stay with him at the apartment. But on days like today, when he had to stay late after school, Buddy would ride over on his scooter and pick him up. Henry never figured out how Buddy always knew when to do this. He just did. So, it didn’t surprise him when he walked outside after detention and saw Buddy waiting for him near the beetleweed plants along the far edge of the parking lot.

  It looked like Buddy was fussing with the white flowers that covered the plants—plucking off dead or wilted leaves. The last time he had picked Henry up, he said they were blooming too early. Henry knew Buddy thought that was a bad thing, because Buddy was always bothered when things happened before they were supposed to.

  Buddy didn’t like change.

  Henry was happy that Buddy would be taking him home today. His teacher had made him stay after school because he didn’t bring a lunch. That happened sometimes when his daddy got home really late and didn’t wake up in time to pack anything for him to take. Henry didn’t understand why his teacher got mad about that. He figured it might be because he didn’t always have his homework done, either.

  Detention was hard because he missed the bus—but it was mostly hard because other kids made fun of him for always being stuck behind with Gabriel Sanchez—who got detention a lot, too. Or they’d tease him about being “dumb” like Buddy. That made Henry mad.

  Gabriel was one of his best friends. And Buddy wasn’t dumb.

  Gabriel got in trouble for not speaking English very well. But Henry never had trouble understanding him. He was going to ask Dorothy if she would help Gabriel with his reading, too. He knew she would if they could figure out a time to work on it. Dorothy always had to be careful about not staying out too late after school. But once school was over for the summer, she would be taking care of him during the daytime. He hoped maybe he could get Mrs. Sanchez to bring Gabriel over so they could go to the bookmobile together. He knew Miss Freemantle would have ideas about good books for them to use to practice learning bigger words.

  “Get away from those flowers, you idiot!”

  His teacher was yelling at Buddy. Henry hadn’t even seen him come outside—but he was standing in the parking lot beside his shiny, big car.

  “Move that scooter off the grass, too. What’s the matter with you?”

  Buddy held up the wilted blooms he’d collected. “Too early,” he said. “They finished too soon.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His teacher yanked his car door open and tossed his briefcase on the front seat. “Those plants are school property. You have no right to deface them.”

  Buddy didn’t say anything. He just stood there holding the pile of dead blooms and leaves in his hands.

  Henry ran as fast as he could to get to the other side of the parking lot. He didn’t want Buddy to get yelled at any more. “He . . . he won’t hurt the . . . plants.” He was out of breath from running. “I promise. He’s . . . really good with things that . . . grow.”

  His teacher slammed the car door closed. “Are you talking to me, young man?”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry was still out of breath. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Unless you want to earn another day of detention, I suggest you remember the correct way to address me.”

  Henry nodded. “I will, sir.”

  The big man pointed a finger at Buddy. “Now tell your mentally challenged friend to get his vehicle off the grass and to stop tampering with private property.”

  Henry wasn’t exactly sure what “mentally challenged” meant, but he knew it wasn’t good. He also knew it wasn’t right. Buddy cared a lot about things that weren’t right, and he always worked hard to make them right when they weren’t. But Henry didn’t want Buddy to try to fix what was wrong with what his teacher thought. That was because the round end of his teacher’s nose turned red when he got mad—and right now it was starting to look like an unwrapped Fireball.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s go home.” Henry hurried over to where Buddy stood. He unfastened the straps on his backpack and held open the empty book compartment. “We can put the dead stuff in here and we’ll throw it away when we get to Junior’s.”

  “It grew too fast, Bluebird,” Buddy said. “Now it’s over.”

  “What’s he babbling about?” His teacher was tapping his hand against the side of his leg.

  “He calls me Bluebird. It’s just a nickname,” Henry explained.

  “Tell him to move that thing, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry closed up his backpack. “We’re leaving.”

  Buddy helped Henry put on his homemade helmet. They climbed onto the scooter and Buddy started it and carefully backed it out.

  Henry couldn’t see him, but he knew that his teacher was still watching as they left the parking lot and turned onto Main Street to head for home.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “I’m not ready to have this conversation.”

  Byron’s face was a study in confusion. “What conversation?”

  “The one you keep hinting at every time we’re alone together.”

  He laughed at her. “Celine? I don’t believe I hint at anything when we’re alone together.”

  She had to smile at that. “You know what I mean.” She was annoyed with herself that it was a struggle to remain on task.

  “Is that why my chair is way over here?”

  Celine had carefully positioned their chairs so Byron’s faced the prospect of the rolling field that led to the river. She’d set hers at a respectful distance from his, with her back toward the house. They’d taken to coming out here on the nights they could meet, just so they could have a private place to talk and enjoy the unseasonably warm evenings. Soon Celine would be living here and they’d always have a private place—and a new set of problems.

  Something flashed above the tall grass behind Byron’s chair. A firefly?

  Impossible. It was too early.

  She saw it again—unmistakable this time. More evidence that summer was coming early to the mountains this year. Another irony. This chapter of her life was shaping up to be a poor remake of The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.

  “I thought you should have the better view tonight,” she told Byron. She knew it sounded weak, even as she said it. But she had to retake control of this situation. The fact that she even thought of it as a “situation” was problematic. She wasn’t use
d to having situations. She’d engineered her life to avoid them.

  “I’m not looking at the view,” he said. “I’m looking at you.”

  “Then maybe I should move my chair?”

  “It won’t make any difference. I’ll still be looking at you.”

  “Byron.”

  “Celine.”

  This was getting them nowhere. And it wasn’t helping that the setting sun was bathing everything around them in golden light. It made the setting seem surreal—like a movie set. A movie. That’s exactly what this was like. One of those horrid Hollywood tropes about women with faded charms and grasping, pathetic needs. She could be the next Maggie Smith—or Shelley Winters. No. Her situation was more epic in its total flight from reason. Set hers to music and she could be starring in a Strauss opera. She was the Marschallin of Jericho—a half-crazy, deluded spinster preying on the attentions of a younger man. It was pathetic.

  The evening sun was illuminating red highlights in Byron’s hair. He looked bronzed and handsome.

  “This can’t happen.” She said the words aloud—more to remind herself than to caution him. “You have to know that.”

  He leaned forward. “What can’t happen?”

  “This.” She waved a hand back and forth between them. “Us.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that I agree with.”

  Finally, they were getting someplace. “So you agree?” she asked.

  “I agree with you that there is an ‘us.’ I think the rest is a bunch of hooey.”

  “Hooey?”

  He nodded. “I think hooey pretty much covers it.”

  “Hooey is an unscientific categorization without meaning. It ignores the facts.”

  “Really?” He looked over the hard-packed ground that would become her patio. Wire-caged towers of slate stood in a semi-circle around their chairs like druid monuments. “I see about as much hooey piling up out here as slabs of rock.”

  “This can’t happen,” she repeated.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think it’s already happened. And it’s terrific.” He smiled at her. “Isn’t it?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “So what’s the problem?”