Goldenrod

by Ann McMan

  “Want me to give you the short answer?” Nadine picked up an iron skillet.

  David held up both hands. “No, ma’am. I get it.”

  Nadine slammed the empty skillet back down on its shelf. “That’s the smartest thing you ever said.”

  “What are you doing out here, David?” Michael asked. “I thought you were taking Astrid to the groomer’s?”

  “Desirée had a gallbladder attack, so they canceled.” He shrugged. “I thought I’d take advantage of the free time and do a little canvassing out here.”

  “David has decided to run for mayor.” Michael brought Nadine up to speed. “Since he’s a write-in candidate, he’s making the rounds to tell people they’ll actually have a choice on the ballot this year.”

  David nodded energetically. “The average voter turnout around here is about five percent—unless there’s a presidential election. Then it roars all the way up to about nine. It’s pathetic. No wonder that homophobic kumquat keeps getting reelected. Nobody likes him, but he keeps running unopposed.”

  “Until now,” Michael added.

  “Wait a minute.” Nadine wagged a finger at David. “You’re running for mayor?”

  He nodded.

  “Against Gerald Watson?”

  He nodded again.

  She faced Michael. “And you’re in favor of this?”

  “Against my better judgment.” Michael smiled at her. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  Nadine scoffed. “That’s one word for it.”

  “Oh, come on, Nadine. You can’t tell me that you and Raymond would prefer to have that wingtip-wearing ferret calling the shots around here for another year.” David caught a glimpse of his reflection inside one of the stainless-steel frying pans hanging from a pot rack on the wall near the stove. He raised a hand and smoothed back his dark hair. “I pledge right now to protect your shrubbery from malicious malcontents wielding chainsaws. And P.S.—I have better fashion sense.”

  “Well, fashion is about the only kind of sense you can lay claim to, boy.” Nadine shook her head. “Don’t you know that man is dangerous? I saw it in his face the day he came out here and threatened us.” She elbowed Michael out of the way and gave the odiferous vegetable medley a vigorous stir. “It was like looking at a shark’s eyes—dark, deep and dead. You mark my words—no good can come out of this for anyone. Least of all you.”

  “How can you say that, Nadine? While I’ll admit that David’s methods can be . . . eccentric . . . I think it’s damn courageous for him to take Watson on. He doesn’t have to do this.”

  “That’s true,” David agreed. “I could continue to sit back and bask in my newfound celebrity as the best-selling editor of a landmark story series.”

  “Landmark?” Nadine whirled around and pointed her spatula at him. “Don’t you dare mention that smut in my kitchen.”

  “Smut?” David was horrified. “It’s not smut, it’s literature.”

  “It’s pornography, and your mama should snatch you up by the short hairs.”

  “It’s not pornography—it’s erotica.” David threw up his hands. “Why does everyone have such a problem with that distinction?”

  “Boy? The only ‘distinction’ that people around here are gonna have a problem with is the one you two get busy with when the lights go down. He’ll make sure of that—I can guarantee it.” She glared at Michael. “I thought you knew better than this? People who try to dance with that devil end up in jail—or worse.”

  “Worse?” David asked. “What do you mean by worse?”

  Nadine raised a hand like she was testifying in church. “I’m not one to gossip.”

  “Well, honey, who is? You can’t drop a bead like that and not explain it.” David went in for the kill. “It’s not Christian.”

  Nadine snatched her skillet off its shelf again.

  Michael intervened. “I heard some of those rumors, too.”

  “What rumors?” David asked.

  “You know. Speculation about what really happened to Watson’s wife.”

  “What speculation? She OD’d on pain killers.” David rolled his eyes. “Hard to blame her for that. There ain’t enough opioid on the planet to get you through doing the nasty with him.”

  Nadine’s eyes blazed. She brandished the skillet like a claymore.

  Michael intervened again—this time by grabbing hold of her wrist.

  “Don’t do it, Nadine. I’ll need that pan later to fry up all those leg quarters. If you kill him, they’ll impound it as a murder weapon.”

  “Good thinkin’, love chunks.” David got to his feet. “I gotta scoot. I need to pick up a couple rolls of canvas and run ’em out to Celine’s. Buddy is gonna make me some banners for the debate.”

  Nadine shot an alarmed look at Michael.

  “He’s debating Watson at the town Fourth of July picnic.”

  “Lord have mercy.” She shook her head.

  “That reminds me.” David walked over to a storage closet and retrieved a battered-looking box that was stashed behind some sacks of yellow cornmeal. “Raymond told me I could borrow your spray paint, Nadine.” He pulled out a can and examined it. “Rust-Oleum Old Forge Blue. Solid choice. Junior said this is great stuff and he’ll probably have to sandblast it off Watson’s car.”

  Nadine made a lunge for him, but Michael held her back.

  “Yeah. Better part of valor, and all that.” David scurried toward the door. “TTFN, y’all.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Jocelyn Painter set a box bulging with hardcover discards and dog-eared paperbacks down on the circulation desk.

  “I think I got some real beauties in here,” she told Syd.

  The library’s annual book sale was in full swing. It only lasted a week, and today was the first day. It was also the only reason Syd had the branch open on a Sunday.

  Jocelyn was always one of the first patrons to scour through the scores of donated items, collection duplicates or damaged books that Syd routinely culled from the shelves. In a normal year, she’d hold the sale in the deep of summer—when the area would be teeming with campers, hikers and whitewater junkies. It was a great way to boost traffic in the branch and generate a bit of revenue. But this wasn’t shaping up to be a normal year—not in any way. Everything seemed to be coming on early. Temperatures were already climbing into the upper 80s—unheard of for June. And there’d been so much rain that the water in the river had surged to near record levels. That prospect made serious rafters flock to the area sooner in the season. Campers, too—although rising waters were beginning to threaten some of the more popular RV parks.

  None of the locals seemed to shed many tears about that last part. They complained that the big RVs descended upon the area like a brood of locusts, and tended to leave the same level of carnage behind when they moved on. They didn’t eat in the local restaurants or stay in any of the hotels. They just parked their giant, high-dollar rigs beside the water and ruined the best views.

  But they also bought books. Especially cheap, disposable ones—or, as Syd lovingly called them, “fire starters.”

  That’s why regular patrons like Jocelyn made it a point to show up on the first day. “I want to make sure I get to skim the cream off the top,” she’d explain.

  Syd realized that Jocelyn’s definition of “cream” was specific. She could be counted on to snap up any books about engine repair—no matter how old the edition or the vehicle in question, cookbook compilations published by any of the area churches, books or magazines about NASCAR, field guides to birds from any part of North America, old mysteries with yellowed pages written by dead authors (they had to be dead), and, oddly, biographies of unknown (or lesser-known) people.

  Jocelyn really liked those.

  Syd pulled Jocelyn’s haul from the box so she could tally up her purchase.

  “Okay, let’s see what all you found this time.”

  She stacked the books according to price. Hardbacks were two dollars. Paperbacks were se
venty-five cents—unless they were written by “dead people,” in which case they were fifty cents. Syd knew better than to charge the full discounted price for any book that had no shot at a sequel.

  Jocelyn had amassed quite an impressive set of titles.

  Two Raymond Chandler novels. One dollar.

  One Chilton manual for a 1972 Ford Pinto. Two dollars.

  Three Audubon guides to birds of the Upper Midwest. Two dollars and twenty-five cents.

  One favorite casseroles cookbook compiled by First United Methodist Church. Seventy-five cents.

  Biographies of Gene Rayburn, Sam Ervin, Linda Kaye Henning, Donny Osmond, and some hippie lounge singer named Bruno Williams. Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

  Four Spencer detective novels by Robert B. Parker. Three dollars.

  Syd was surprised. She held up one of the books. “Are you branching out?”

  Jocelyn looked confused. “What do you mean? Ain’t they mysteries?”

  “Yes, they are. But Robert B. Parker isn’t dead. At least, not yet.”

  “He’s not?”

  Syd shook her head.

  “Well, dang.” Jocelyn took the books back from Syd and set them aside. “Maybe if he’s dead by next summer, these’ll still be here.”

  “You never know,” Syd agreed. She continued tallying up the books.

  One history of NASCAR series racing at Watkins Glen. Seventy-five cents.

  One creased and tattered copy of Tipping the Velvet. This one was in such bad shape that Buddy had repaired the torn cover with car tape. Syd raised an eyebrow.

  Jocelyn was quick to clarify the selection. “That one’s for Rita,” she said.

  Syd smiled. Seventy-five cents.

  “Okay. Your grand total comes to,” Syd did a quick calculation, “ten dollars and fifty cents.”

  Jocelyn handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “You keep the change and add it to that Friends of the Library fund. Cougar’s Quality Logistics is proud to support literacy in this community.”

  “Thank you, Jocelyn. That’s very generous.”

  “Can I get a receipt? That Natalie is all about them tax write-offs.”

  “Oh, are you getting these for the business?” Syd opened a drawer and pulled out a pad of receipts.

  Jocelyn nodded. “Cougar’s has moved into the big leagues since we signed on with Wheaton Van Lines. We’re running so many long-distance hauls now we can barely keep up. Natalie says we’re gonna have to take on more drivers.” She shook her head, and Syd detected a faint trace of perm solution. “I don’t see as how right now, though—not if them Fleetwood contracts dry up.” She leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “Natalie says their business is good right now, but they’ll likely go belly-up if things in this economy don’t turn around. It’ll be just like Oakwood Homes all over again.” She sighed. “I hope that day doesn’t come. It’s a sad state of affairs when God-fearing taxpayers can’t afford to have a new home delivered.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Syd agreed.

  “That’s why Natalie convinced us to diversify our business model. These here books?” She indicated the box Syd was repacking. “These’ll be part of our corporate library—to give our drivers somethin’ to do on the road besides drink beer and waste money on scratch-off cards.”

  “I have noticed that James is away on overnight trips a lot more,” Syd observed.

  “Well, that’s true. But don’t you be worrying that we’re working him to death on purpose. He’s always the first one in line to ask for them longer runs. Sometimes, we have to say no to him, just so other drivers can get a shot at the higher-paying trips.”

  Syd’s interest was piqued. “James is asking you for more overnight work?”

  Jocelyn nodded. “The only reason me and Deb don’t really mind is because we know you and Doc Stevenson like having more time with his boy. We ain’t in the business of busting up anybody’s family life.”

  Syd smiled. “I know that, Jocelyn. And, yes—James knows we’re always happy to have Henry stay with us.”

  “Well, between you’n me,” she said in a confidential tone. “I suspect maybe James is thinkin’ about leavin’ the area and doin’ somethin’ different.”

  “Leaving?” Syd was alarmed. “Has he said anything to you?”

  “Nope. Not yet. But Rita says he’s real unhappy and doesn’t feel like things is workin’ out for him here.”

  Syd’s heart sank.

  Leaving? That would mean he’d take Henry away, too . . .

  Jocelyn noticed her distress. She reached across the circulation desk and patted Syd’s hand. “Don’t you go worryin’ about this. I shouldn’t even of brought it up. My big mouth causes all kinds of trouble. You forget I even said anything.”

  Forget?

  That wasn’t very likely.

  Syd knew it would now be impossible for her to think about anything else.

  She felt dazed.

  “Where would he go?” she asked Jocelyn.

  “Honey,” Jocelyn squeezed the top of her hand. “He may not go anyplace. Rita just said he was thinkin’ about making a change—about maybe going back in the army.”

  “The army?”

  Jocelyn nodded.

  Syd’s shoulders slumped.

  Oh, god . . .

  “Thinkin’ and doin’ are two different things. You know that.” Jocelyn gave her hand a last warm squeeze. “I am truly sorry I upset you with my loose talk. I oughta be horse-whipped.” She picked up her box of books. “Are you gonna be okay, honey?”

  Syd had no idea how to reply. She handed Jocelyn her receipt and tried to smile.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She watched Jocelyn leave, then sat down on a stool.

  Fear and sadness swirled around her like invading armies, amassing along every border.

  Armies . . .

  James was thinking about leaving—and that would mean Henry would be leaving, too.

  How would she survive it? How would Maddie survive it?

  Their lives would never be the same.

  She stood up and headed for the phone in her office. She needed to call Maddie. Now. In her haste, she knocked a book off the end of her reshelving truck—and when she bent down to pick it up, she realized what it was. Richard Brautigan. So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away.

  She stared at it briefly before flinging it across the room.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Legato. Staccato. These are perhaps the most important things to understand and to master.”

  Dorothy sat on the bench beside Celine with a straight back. Her left hand rested on her lap. Her right wrist was up. Her right hand was arched over the keyboard. Her fingers were fixed in Position One. This was only their third lesson, but already, Dorothy was showing incredible promise. A lot of that came from her intensity and ability to focus. Celine had never come across that in anyone so young—apart from her own daughter.

  But Maddie had never had the patience or the inclination to learn the piano. Celine always suspected that was a kind of protest position that was as much a referendum on problems in their relationship as it was an expression of her distaste for the discipline.

  Thank god, those days were in the past. Although Maddie still refused to play the piano and would always find an excuse to disappear when it was time for one of Henry’s lessons. Celine figured it was her way to avoid guilt by association.

  “Don’t worry if the actions feel unnatural at first,” Celine explained to Dorothy. “It can seem difficult to do because we’re not used to making our fingers work independently.”

  “Say those two words again?” Dorothy did not look up from the keyboard.

  “Legato. Staccato. Legato is an Italian word which means ‘tied together.’ In music, this means the notes should be played fluidly and evenly, with no space between them. Staccato is another Italian word. It means ‘detached.’ This means staccato notes should be shorter and more distinct—with defined space
s between them. In music, these differences in the way notes are played is called articulation—and it’s very like the way we use words in speaking. Seamless when we’re animated or agitated. Cropped and punctuated when we’re conveying more precise thoughts or emotions. Does that make sense?”

  Dorothy nodded and looked over at her—but she still held her hand rigidly in Position One.

  “So, the way the notes sound has to do with the feelings behind them?”

  Celine smiled at her. “To me it does. What we’re paying attention to with legato and staccato is the function and importance of silence between the notes. What does or does not happen between the notes—how much silence there is or isn’t—informs the message and meaning of the music. That’s articulation.”

  “How do you know how much silence is right?”

  Celine thought about Buddy. He would be better positioned to answer this one. After all, Dorothy was asking a question that was as much about life as music.

  “The truth is that sometimes we don’t know. But the composers who write the music give us notation and direction to guide us. We will learn to follow those as we go along.”

  Dorothy looked down at her left hand. “I don’t know how to start.”

  “I can help you with that. You begin slowly, until you are comfortable. Each finger plays one note, followed by another. Then another. Until you can play them all in order without thinking.”

  “What happens after that?”

  “After that, you learn to do the same thing backwards.”

  Dorothy looked at her with a panicked expression.

  “It’s all right,” Celine reassured her. “Do you remember when you first learned how to walk?”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  “But now you walk without thinking about it. Right?”

  Dorothy nodded.

  “Can you walk backwards?” Celine asked.

  “Mostly. But sometimes I bump into things.”

  Celine thought about her own clumsy attempts to reverse direction. She bumped into things, too. But most of her obstacles were internal. She had the sense that maybe Dorothy’s were, too.