by Tena Frank
“Oh, well . . . excuse me. No. No you don’t have to be.” The warmth in the woman’s voice disappeared, replaced by a cold and clipped response. “I’ll just get someone to take you to him.” The receptionist scowled at Tate.
Serves her right. Tate sank into one of the worn chairs in the lobby. Why do people have to ask such dumb questions?
And why am I being so bitchy? She could feel the old Tate pushing her way to the surface, the Tate easily angered by the behavior of others when that behavior clearly had little or nothing to do with her. I must watch that.
The receptionist picked up the phone and dialed the extension in the Common room. “Someone here to see Mr. Howard,” she said. “No, it’s not a relative. I don’t know who she is. She wouldn’t say.” Tate heard the sarcasm in the woman’s voice, confirming she had been confrontational. Clearly I still have a lot to learn about Southern charm and conventions.
“Ma’am,” called the nurse who entered the lobby moments later. “You’re here to see Mr. Howard?”
“Yes.” Tate rose and as she passed the receptionist, she stopped and said, “Look, I’m sorry for being rude. I shouldn’t have acted like I did.” The receptionist nodded grudgingly, clearly not willing to forgive. Tate bent close to her and said, “I’ve been learning about Mr. Howard’s work, and I’m just here to meet the man who is responsible for so many beautiful things.”
The receptionist softened. “Oh yes, he is very talented, isn’t he? And he’s such a love. It’s so sad he never gets visitors, but no one’s left anymore. He’ll be glad to see you.”
Tate followed the nurse into a large room filled with light from the expansive windows running the full length of the back wall. About a dozen people sat at small tables throughout the remarkably quiet room. No one there seemed willing to laugh out loud or speak in a full voice though many joined in on hushed conversations. Card players occupied two tables, one group engaged in a game of Hearts and the other in what looked to Tate like Hand and Foot. I wonder . . . that’s a pretty complicated game for old people. She chuckled at her own stereotypical thinking.
Hand and Foot, a derivative of Pinochle, required a great deal of strategy to play successfully. With the large number of cards a player could be holding, it also required some physical dexterity that Tate thought could be difficult for old hands stiffened with arthritis. The four players involved in this game had card holders to deal with that problem.
“He’s over here,” said the nurse. Tate turned away from the card game. All the residents in the room looked clean and well groomed. Even those in wheelchairs appeared well taken care of.
In the far corner, Tate saw an old man hunched over a rectangular folding table filled with various chisels and pieces of wood—beautiful wood, not the cheap fragments of pine Tate would have expected to see in an arts and crafts room in a retirement home. Even from a distance, she recognized some cherry and ambrosia maple. As she approached Leland, he focused on her with eyes of the softest blue she had ever seen. They sparkled, yet reflected an ancient sadness.
“Mr. Howard,” said the nurse. “You have a visitor.” Tate stopped beside Leland Howard and looked into the face of a man who, despite all he had lost, peered up at her with hope and curiosity.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Howard. My name is Tate Marlowe.”
“Do I know you?” Leland searched her face hopefully.
“No, we haven’t met before. I’ve been learning about your work, and I’ve seen the old house you own on Chestnut Street.”
Tate saw pain hijack Leland’s whole being as he took in what she said. He turned away, shutting her out, the light dimming in the sparkling blue eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Howard. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He picked up the wood he had been carving and turned it in his hands, inspecting it closely and humming quietly.
What did I do wrong? I shouldn’t have jumped right in like that. Now he’ll never talk to me. Too abrupt.
Tate’s visit had aroused the curiosity of the Forest Glen staff, one of whom hovered nearby eavesdropping on their conversation. As Tate stood in perplexed silence, one of the aides motioned to her.
“He doesn’t talk about his past. I think he has a lot of bad memories and you may have stirred them up.”
“I just wanted to meet him. I have so many questions, and I think he could answer them, but I never intended to cause him any pain.”
“Well, he can be talkative and I’m sure he’d like to have a visitor now and again. We can’t provide each of our guests as much personal attention as they’d like. Give him some time, then come back and try again.”
“Do you think he’ll give me another chance? I can be a bit of a bull in a china shop, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know.” The woman smiled at Tate and gave her a wink. Obviously the word had spread quickly about her encounter with the receptionist.
“Oh. Well . . . I guess I have more amends to make then.”
“Don’t fret about it. We’re happy to have someone take an interest in Mr. Leland. He’s such a darlin’. His sadness runs real deep, and we’d all like to see it lifted a bit.”
“Do you think he might talk to me if I came back in a couple of days? Or maybe tomorrow?”
“Well, he loves to show off his woodworking. He makes wonderful little boxes with hiding places in them. Maybe you could start there. And I think he’d be even more inclined to talk to you if you’d bring along his favorite treat—peanut butter cookies. But he only likes the homemade kind, and he can definitely tell the difference. For an old man, his taste buds are in remarkably good shape!”
Tate left Forest Glen and spent the rest of the afternoon looking for instructions online and getting the ingredients necessary to make peanut butter cookies. She fought the urge to experiment with some of the updated recipes she found, opting for the original, simple version that harkened back to the days when people—when she—did not worry so much about things like high cholesterol, glycemic index and expanding waistlines.
These were my favorites when I was a kid. Sitting in the sun on the back porch with peanut butter cookies right out of the oven and a big glass of milk—that was Heaven!
Some of Tate’s childhood memories remained crystal clear even after many decades, and often the most pronounced ones involved food. Her mother had taught Tate much of what she knew about cooking, and though Tate’s diet had changed significantly over her lifetime, the skills she learned in her earliest years, standing on a stool beside her mother at the kitchen stove, still served her well now.
She had not baked cookies in ages. She couldn’t remember the last time, but she could remember the first. She was about 5, and her mother was in a good mood. They pulled out the tattered recipe handed down from Tate’s great-grandmother, scrawled on lined note paper in a spidery script. Then came the sugar, flour, eggs, peanut butter and the rest, which they mixed into a sticky, sweet dough. Tate rolled it into little balls between the palms of her tiny hands and then flattened the balls out by making crisscrosses in the top using a fork. She licked the stuff off her fingers and scooped up the leftover dough from the bowl, gobbling it down, too.
Her mother hugged her. They giggled. They made white spots on each other’s noses with flour-dipped fingers. Easy laughter, sun-filled kitchen, chewy cookies, fleeting joy. Children do not forget moments like this, especially when they occur so rarely.
Tate savored this memory the next morning as she prepared cookies to take to Forest Glen. She baked three dozen, some crunchy and some chewy, sealed them up in plastic wrap and again set out on her quest for information.
TWENTY
1954
Rita Marie Thornton provided proof of the complexity of the debate regarding nature versus nurture. Did her problematic behavior as a child result from her genetic heritage or the circumstances of her family life? A powerful argument could be made for either side, and such debates took place frequently
in the principals’ offices and teachers’ lounges of the various schools she attended in the many towns her family migrated through during her tumultuous formative years.
She arrived in Asheville in 1952 at the age of 15. With bad skin and limp hair, popularity proved elusive for Rita. But she now had new weapons. Her approaching womanhood brought with it the transition from skinny beanpole to voluptuous femininity, complete with firm full breasts, rounded hips and a bad attitude. She embodied the definition of a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, and she embraced her status with enthusiasm.
Her clothing consisted mainly of cheap chemise dresses cinched in tight at the waist and worn shorter than the fashionable length of the day to show off her shapely legs. Occasionally she added a tight cardigan buttoned to just under her breasts, and she always sported an abundance of rhinestone jewelry from the 5 & 10 cent store.
She gained just the kind of attention she wanted. The bad boys began lining up, and within two months of her arrival, Rita had her pick of them.
Although she had no real friends to speak of, Rita’s social calendar kept her busy every day and evening. She attended school sporadically, preferring to hang out under the bleachers with the greasers and smoke Lucky Strikes. The shallowness of her existence never occurred to Rita. She cared not who she dated so long as she had a boy on her arm every night and something fun to do every weekend. Then she met Clay Howard.
Almost ten years her senior, she considered him the sexiest man she had ever seen. From the first time she laid eyes on him, she set out to bed him. She put her hips in motion and sashayed across his path. He pretended not to notice her the first time or any of the many times in the following week she made it a point to be in his presence. Then one day she caught him giving her a sidelong glance as she passed.
“Hey there, handsome,” she cooed, acting as grown up as possible for a 15-year-old. Clay had that unmistakable look of interest in his eye, so she pushed forward. “Why don’t you buy me a pop?” Rita asked.
“What’s a pop, little girl?” Clay tried to cover his confusion with swagger.
Rita’s insecurity raged to the surface. She knew they called it “coke” down here. “Pop” had slipped out, an old habit. She pulled in her tummy, threw her shoulders back to make her budding breasts more prominent and stared Clay straight in the eyes.
“Oh, that’s right. You rebels call it ‘coke’ don’t you? Guess I figured a smart guy like you would know what a pop is.”
Clay surveyed her up and down. Slow. Deliberate. “Oh, I know what it is all right,” he announced, his voice smooth and silky.
Rita blushed and broke out in a fine sweat from ankles to hairline. But she never took her eyes off Clay.
“Now that we know what we’re both talkin’ about, you gonna buy me one or not?”
“Nah,” said Clay. “You’re jail bait for a guy like me.” He chuckled and his perfect mouth curled into a sly grin. Rita felt herself melting, but she maintained her confident tone.
“Really? Jail bait is a good thing, ain’t it?”
“Not unless a man wants to go to jail,” quipped Clay. “I’ve been there, and it’s not the place for me.”
“Then we’ll have to be careful not to get caught.” Rita sauntered down the street, leaving him to watch every movement of her arms, her hips and her long, slender legs. Now that she had his attention, she would take her time reeling him in.
Four months later, Clay made it clear he had no intention of marrying Rita in spite of her pregnancy. So it came as a big surprise to Rita when his parents, whom she had met on a couple of occasions, invited her to dinner and gave her gifts for the child she carried. They made it known they cared about her and wanted to be a part of her life and the baby’s life, no matter what their no-account son chose to do.
TWENTY-ONE
2004
The receptionist greeted Tate hesitantly. No “honey” this time. Just a “good afternoon.”
“Hi. I’m here to see Mr. Howard again,” Tate began, then she held out a package of cookies—her peace offering.
“I brought these along. I made some for him, and I wanted to give some to the staff as well.”
“Now that’s mighty nice of you, Missus . . .”
“Marlowe. It’s Ms. Marlowe, but you can call me Tate.”
“Ms. Tate. Very nice of you to think of us, too.” Tate noticed her cool tone and the emphasis on “Ms.,” but decided to let it slide. So many people these days still found it difficult, even distasteful perhaps, to address a woman by a title that did not signify marital status.
“Just Tate. No ‘Ms.’ necessary.” She kept her tone friendly.
The receptionist paused briefly before giving a totally unexpected response.
“Okay, Ms. Tate. I understand you don’t like our Southern ways ’round here. We call people ‘honey’ and we call ’em ‘missus’ even when we don’t know if they’re married or not. You pro’bly think we’re uneducated or backwards, but that’s not the case. We’re polite. We’re friendly, and we stick to our habits just like everbody else. We don’t mean no harm, and we don’t mean no offense. I’ll bend to your way much as I can, but there’s limits. So you decide. You can be Ms. Marlowe or Ms. Tate, but no way am I gonna address you by your given name and not put no title in front of it.”
Tate stared agape at the woman whose fierce expression challenged her own indignation. Whoa! What’s going on here? I thought I was being polite! She felt the flash of anger that warned of an impending meltdown, but instead of lashing out, she forced herself to look at it from the other side. I’m pushy, bossy and demanding. I approach the world like everyone’s out to get me. I take offense easily and feel justified in doing so. These thoughts rushed through her mind in an instant and with them an overwhelming awareness of how caustic she could be. She felt the extremely rare sensation of shame flow over her. The next moment she found herself awash in a flood of gratitude. This is exactly the lesson I need to learn.
Tears formed in the corner of Tate’s eyes as she took in the woman in front of her. Not just the face, not just the physical body, but the full spirit of the woman, her essence, integrity and dignity. She reached over and took the woman’s smooth, dark, cool hand into her own.
Tate had failed to notice the woman’s ID tag before, had not taken the time to put a name to the face, but now she did. How appropriate. Ruby truly is a jewel.
“I cannot thank you enough, Ruby. I rarely stop to think how I come across to others, and when I do, I usually make excuses for how it’s their problem, not mine. I haven’t been here long, and I still find Southern customs a bit perplexing, even annoying sometimes. Still, it’s no reason to be rude, and I realize how abrasive I must seem to you. I’m really sorry. And I mean it when I say ‘thank you’ for pointing it out to me. Not many people are willing to stand up to me the way you just did, and it’s truly refreshing, ’though I’ll admit I’m embarrassed.”
“I’m embarrassed, too,” Ruby gasped. Tate noticed the flushing on Ruby’s face and neck. “Don’t know why I said that. I never talk to people that way. Somethin’ just came over me.”
“I have that effect on people sometimes!”
“But I should never have . . .”
“I get that you have to maintain your composure in this job. But no one heard you except me, and I’m so grateful to you right now, Ms. Ruby . . .”
“Really? For such shameful behavior?”
“Really. And I deserved it. I have to tell you, I needed to hear it. People just don’t call me on my bad manners very often. They walk away instead, and I lose people without ever getting to see what part I played in it. You helped open my eyes in a way I couldn’t have done on my own. You and I could be good friends.”
“Well, Ms. Tate . . .”
“But you’d really have to stop calling me ‘Ms.’ outside of the work place!”
They broke into laughter, which filled the otherwise empty lobby just as someone entered fro
m the door leading to the Common room.
Dorothy, the aide Tate had met yesterday, looked at the two women quizzically.
“You seem to be havin’ a good time.”
“We are,” said Tate. “We’re forging a friendship here based on mutual respect and brutal honesty!”
“And peanut butter cookies,” Ruby chimed in. “Want one?”
“There are plenty to go around. I brought lots to share with the staff and the other guests. Any chance I can see Mr. Howard again, Dorothy?”
“They can’t all have the cookies, you know. Some are diabetic and we have to be careful of allergies and what not. I’ll take them and make sure everyone who can have one gets one,” Dorothy volunteered. “And you keep some for you and Mr. Howard. I think he’ll be happy to see you today.”
Leland sat at the same table, looking out over the woods behind the facility, apparently deep in thought, absentmindedly fiddling with a small wooden box he held in his hands. Tate watched him from a distance for several minutes before approaching, which she did only after his attention returned to the work before him.
“Hello, again.” She consciously softened her tone as she greeted him.
“Do I know you?” Same question. Same expression of curiosity. I hope he doesn’t remember me.
“We met only once, very briefly. My name is Tate Marlowe.”
“Marlowe is it? I don’t recollect knowing any Marlowes.”
“I’m fairly new in town. Wanted to come visit and bring you these.” She placed the cookies on the table near him.
“Peanut butter?” He peeked up at her with childlike joy.
“Yep. Peanut butter. I hear they’re your favorite.”
“You bet!” He reached eagerly for the cookies then paused. “May I have one?”
“Of course. I made them just for you. Well, I gave some to the staff, too.”
“Mighty nice of you, Missus . . .”
“Marlowe. Tate Marlowe.”
He took a bite of the cookie and savored it for a moment.
