I stood, bringing the basket up with me. “What made you think to do this?” I asked, calling something akin to a truce with my words.
“Hard day, right?”
“Very.” I took a step toward him, and he met me, the basket keeping us physically separated. But I managed to nuzzle his neck. “I’m sorry for the slight lack of trust.”
“It’s going to take time, I know.” Then to change the subject: “I’ve got dinner warm in the oven, straight from Higher Grounds.”
I pulled back. “Now you really have read my mind.”
He kissed me gently. “I’m good at that. Now scoot and take that bath. I want you in the robe and slippers when you come to the table.”
I looked up at him coyly. “Who says love gets stale when a couple gets old.”
He stepped aside, and I took steps to pass him. He swatted me on my fanny, which as a coach has always been one of his trademark endearment touches. “Who says we’re old?” When I looked over my shoulder at him, he winked at me. And I at him.
I soaked up to my chin in the sweet-scented water as Old Blue Eyes serenaded me from the CD player that rested on the tank of the toilet. It wasn’t piped in stereo, but it was perfect, especially with the lights turned down and the lit floating candles bobbing atop the water, adding to the delicious aroma that filled the room in a misty cloud. At some point Jack brought me a cup of hot tea, and though he gave me quite the stare, he didn’t bother my respite.
“I have died and gone to heaven,” I whispered to him, closing my eyes.
“Not quite, baby,” he said softly. “But I’ll do my best to get you as close as possible.”
When the water had turned tepid and my fingers had shriveled along the tips, I reluctantly sat up, blew out the candles, and drew myself up to the cool of the room. I wrapped myself in the new robe and tied the sash tight around my waist, then pushed my feet into the slippers. I walked over to the vanity, picked up my brush, and ran it through my hair for two or three strokes, and then left the room as the tub gurgled the last bit of water into the pipes.
Jack had lit candles on the dining room table and put steaming hot lemon chicken from the café on china plates out of my grandmother’s set. I’d inherited them after she died about ten years ago. Ten years later and I’m still stunned that she even thought to leave them to me. I’d never exactly been her favorite; my moving to Colorado practically sealed my fate of being plucked from her side of the family tree.
I pointed to the table. “Grandmother Hampton’s china, I see.”
Jack smiled at me. “We don’t use it enough.” He pulled my chair out for me, and I sat, watching over my shoulder as he poured a glass of lemon water into two of the stemmed crystal glasses we’d gotten as a wedding gift. He brought them over to the table and then sat, placing one at my plate, one at his.
“Jack, this is lovely.” I leaned over for a kiss. “Thank you.”
Jack blessed the food and then picked up a remote control I hadn’t noticed before. With a press of a button the stereo in the adjacent living room clicked on: more American standards, this time performed by Rod Stewart, wafted in.
“Jack,” I whispered, then spoke in a teasing tone. “What was it Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman? ‘I appreciate this whole seduction scene you’ve got going here, but I’m a sure thing.’”
Jack shook his head. “Nah-ah. I’m never taking you for granted again.”
I sat up straight and picked up my fork. “I like that.”
A moment later I pulled my foot out of one of the slippers; we spent the rest of the meal playing footsy under the table.
I sat long-ways on the sofa, my feet in Jack’s lap while he rubbed them with some of the lavender body lotion from the basket. “The worst part of trial term is having to wear heels all day,” I said with a moan.
“But think how pretty your legs look in them,” my husband teased.
“You say that, but you don’t have to wear them.”
We sat in silence, and Jack continued to rub. Frank and Rod had long ago sung their last stanza, but Jack continued to hum “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.” He was, oddly enough, in perfect pitch.
“I’m going to have to get some sleep pretty soon,” he finally said. “Four-thirty comes awful early every morning.”
I opened my eyes from my near-reverie and said, “Spring break is just a few weeks away. Then you can watch The Tonight Show and sleep late like we used to when we were first married.”
Jack furrowed his brow. “Are you planning to go back to Georgia again this year?”
I paused briefly before nodding. “I’m sure I will. I talked to Daddy the other night, and he says the livestock festival will be held the end of next month, so if I go, I’ll go then. If I can get the time off.”
“How’s your daddy doing?”
I wrapped my arms tight around my middle, warm at the thought of Daddy. Like most Southern daughters, I’m a daddy’s girl. Always have been, always will be. “Good, as usual.”
“Your daddy wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Still working too hard. I talked with Mama on the way to work this morning, and she said she’s wishing he’d slow down a bit. You’d think at seventy-eight the man would be moving toward the recliner, but no. Mama says he and my brother argue all the time over how hard Daddy continues to work the farm.”
“Like I said, your daddy wouldn’t have it any other way. If the man ever gets sick, he’ll die from being miserable at having to lie around all day.”
“Yes, he would.” I pulled my feet from his hands. “Let’s go to bed, Mr. Dippel. I’m tired, you’re tired, and tomorrow is another day.”
“Yes, it is.” Hand in hand we stepped down the dark hallway. Without turning on a single light we found our way to the rumpled covers of our bed and slipped under the coolness of them.
I believe I fell asleep, happy and content, before I even closed my eyes.
My eyes shot wide open, and I bolted up in the bed as my heart hammered in my chest. “What is that?” I asked, aware of a shrillness piercing through the dark and silence of night.
Jack sat up beside me. “It’s the phone, Goldie.”
I pressed my hand to my chest and fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table as Jack did the same from his side of the bed. I peered at the digital clock. It stared back at me: 4:15. Who would be calling at 4:15 in the morning?
Jack answered the phone, which was on his bedside table. “Hello? . . . Hey . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . that’s okay . . . oh no . . . okay, I . . . I will . . . sure . . . sure . . .” He cradled the phone against his chest and looked at me, his hair tousled and his eyes squinting against the harshness of the light behind me. “Goldie, it’s your brother.”
“Which brother?”
“Tom. It’s Tom . . . he . . . well, here.” He extended the phone toward me. “Talk to him.”
I took the phone slowly, instinctively knowing something was wrong. Tom would never call at such an ungodly hour. “Tom?”
“It’s Daddy, Goldie,” he said, coming right to the point. “He’s had a heart attack. We’re at the hospital now and . . . Mama wants to know how soon you can get back home.”
Lizzie
6
A Little Mixer
The things I once held dear about returning to my home after a long day at work have gone by the wayside. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would leave the high school where I am the head librarian (or, as they say these days, media specialist) by 4:00 in the afternoon. I would drive home slowly, taking in the sights of my beloved Summit View—its magnificent wildflowers blazing color along the mountainsides in spring, its deep greens in summer, the bright yellow aspen groves zigzagging up the mountainsides in autumn, and the evergreens bent from heavy snows in winter. This was my time to reflect on the day that had just passed and to contemplate the evening ahead, usually spent with my husband Samuel and adult daughter Michelle. With Samuel and me being quiet by nature
and Michelle being deaf by God’s design, ours was a peaceful home where I could slip in and enjoy a cup of tea before Samuel’s arrival from the bank, where he is president, and Michelle’s return from Breckenridge, where she works at one of the resorts as an advertising executive. Then I would cook a simple dinner—meals like Texas hash (one of Samuel’s favorites)—that was hearty and filling but didn’t take all night to prepare. We would eat around the kitchen table and speak of our individual days. After dinner Michelle and I would clean the kitchen and Samuel would take a peek at the news so he could, as he says, stay informed. Then together we’d watch Law and Order reruns on TNT, and at some point Michelle and I would each grab a favorite book and read until time for bed.
But all that was behind me; that season of life over. Now I have a houseful of people living under one roof. Our thirty-one-yearold son Tim and his wife Samantha, along with their children, ten-year-old Kaci and six-year-old Brent, moved back home just before Christmas last year in an effort to salvage their marriage. Though they actively looked for their own house, so far nothing had “jumped out” at them.
“At least nothing in my price range,” Tim said just a few nights ago, having spent the entire day, Saturday, looking while I was busy with the Lowenstein Bat Mitzvah over in Breckenridge.
I walked over to where my purse rested on the nearby kitchen countertop. “Here.” I reached in and pulled out a thin stack of folded papers. “I picked up some house information papers on a few of the places I saw while in Breck. You should consider there as well. It’s where you work, after all.”
Tim shot me an “I can’t believe you” look as he reached for the papers. “Mom, first of all, I couldn’t afford a one-room shack up there, and second of all, if we move to Breck it will mean the kids having to relocate schools again. You should have thought of that, being a school employee and all.”
“Silly me,” I muttered, then went into the living room, where my husband continued to recuperate in his recliner, having sustained a back injury in December. He was doing what he was always doing these days, watching television. With TiVo he had managed to record every judge show, every Law and Order, and every cold case show ever filmed. Today, however, he was actually watching a classic, To Kill a Mockingbird.
I halted behind Samuel’s chair long enough to watch the scene where Gregory Peck is putting papers back in his briefcase and every black man, woman, and child—relegated to the balcony— rise in honor of what he has attempted to do, to acquit an innocent black man in rural Alabama, circa 1930. I placed my hand over my heart and took in a deep breath as the preacher tapped Scout on the shoulder and said, “Stand up. Your daddy is passing by.”
When I exhaled, Samuel turned and looked toward me. “Hey, there. I didn’t hear you come in.” He turned the volume down. “How was the bar mitzvah?”
“Bat mitzvah,” I corrected, walking over to the side of his chair. “Bat not bar. Bat is for girls. Bar is for boys.”
He smiled at me, reached for my hand, and tugged me to sit on the armrest. “You learn that today or did you know it already?”
“I knew it already. And do you know how I knew it already?”
He playfully rolled his eyes. “No, but I think you are going to tell me.”
“I knew it because I read books. Books, Samuel. I don’t insist on getting my sole entertainment from television or movies.” I glanced toward the television. “Even movies well done such as this old great.”
“Makes me want to rush to the library and get the oldest, mustiest copy of ‘this old great,’ as you call it, and actually read it, if that’s any consolation.”
I leaned over and braced myself by placing my hand on the opposite armrest. “Mmm-hmm. How’s your back today?”
“Much better. I walked to the kitchen and back without my cane. How’s that for progress?”
I frowned. “It’s slow, if you want my opinion.”
“Doc says I’m beginning to heal nicely. He thinks I’ll be back at the bank within the next few weeks.”
I sighed at the thought of even the tiniest number of weeks with Samuel hanging about the house all day—whether I was here or not—but gave his lips a quick peck anyway. “Watch your movie while I throw a frozen lasagna in the oven.” I rose. “I’m going to run over to the retirement home and see Mom while it bakes, so keep an eye on it for me, will you?”
Samuel nodded as he reached for the remote and increased the volume on the television. I took a few steps and looked back at the picture of Atticus Finch and his son Jem sitting close as they drove toward the home of Tom Robinson. For a moment I thought of my own father.
I missed him terribly.
My mother, who is in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s, lives in a nearby assisted living facility. Until recently she lived with my brother Charles and his wife Mildred. Then Mildred had a heart attack and Charles called, informing me it was now “my turn” to take care of our mother. His hands were full of taking care of Mildred, who has—like Samuel—returned to health at a snail’s pace. With Tim and family living in the house and Michelle’s new fiancé Adam practically a fixture in our home, I couldn’t move Mom in with us. Samuel and I chose, rather, to place her at the Good Samaritan Assisted Living Facility, located near Lake Dillon. In this way, I could stop by on my way home from school or if need be before school, or—in this case—before or after everything else I had to do on a Saturday.
I shivered as I made my way from the parking lot to the front door, but not because of the February cold that hung today like an old gray coat. I shivered, instead, because I knew that Mom—if she were lucid enough—would know it was Saturday and that I had waited until dark to come by.
Mom’s “place” is a studio—450 square feet of what she has left of the furniture she once filled my childhood home with—and is next to the elevator on the second floor. I tapped on her door and pulled leather gloves from my hands as I waited for her to answer. “Mom?” I called out. “It’s me. Lizzie.”
She swung the door open wide and stood before me, dressed in the black slacks and light pink sweater set I’d given her for her birthday last November. “I know your name,” she spouted at me. “If a woman’s voice calls me Mom, I surely don’t think it’s your brother Charles.”
I squared my shoulders and smiled at her as I walked through the threshold. “Good to see you at your best, Mom.” I kissed her overly powdered cheek.
She closed the door behind me. “What took you so long?”
“Beg pardon?” As though I didn’t know where this was going.
“It’s practically bedtime.”
I pulled myself out of my coat. “Mom, it’s hardly six o’clock. Pipe down.”
“But it’s a Saturday. You couldn’t come by this morning? There’s a bridge tournament going on downstairs in the game room at seven, and I want to get there early enough to ensure I’m on a good team.”
I crossed my arms and tilted my head a bit to the right. “Why don’t you and Mrs. Chismar from the fourth floor go down together? You know you want to team up with her, and that way you won’t chance her teaming with someone else.”
Mom lifted her chin. “Hadn’t thought of that. I’ll call her in a few and see what she thinks of that.” Mom shuffled to her favorite place on the love seat and sat down. “So, where have you been all day?”
I took a seat next to her, folding my hands in my lap. “Our catering business had a job to do today. Do you remember me telling you about the catering business the Potluck girls and I put together?”
“Of course I do.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke. I noted a faint reminder of my kiss on her cheek and reached over to wipe it away with my thumb. She looked at me then. “What kind of job did you have today?”
I sat back, relieved that she actually wanted to talk. Someone to hear about my day, I thought. She may or may not remember it this time tomorrow, but at least she’s listening now. “We catered a bat mitzvah for a little Jewish girl from Evie�
�s neighborhood.”
Mom laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to cater a bat mitzvah for a little Protestant girl, now would I?”
I laughed too. And for a moment it felt good to be with my mother.
Luke Nelson, the administrator of the Good Samaritan, stopped me as I walked from the game room where I’d left Mom and Mrs. Chismar happily plotting their evening. “Mrs. Prattle, may I speak with you a minute?”
I looked at my watch. The lasagna should come out of the oven within fifteen minutes, which gave me just enough time to get home. “A minute?” I asked.
He gave me a firm but sympathetic look. “More like ten minutes.”
I studied him for a moment. He was a man in his early thirties, too thin by my standards, with deep-set gray eyes and thinning brown hair. He wore a coat and tie, the consummate professional, with Nike sneakers, appropriate for keeping up with six floors of elderly citizens and a full staff of dedicated employees. “I’ll just need to call home.”
“You can use my office phone.” He turned and began down the hallway from which I had just come.
I followed close behind. “I would use my cell phone, but I left it and my purse in the car.”
He paused for a moment and waited for me to catch up to him. “It’s not a problem. How is Mr. Prattle?”
“Getting better.”
We reached a closed door with a brass nameplate next to the frame. “Luke Nelson, Administrator,” it read. “Tell him I miss seeing him when I go into the bank.” He opened the door for me.
I stepped into the plush office—too plush for my taste. The wallpaper was black, splattered with oversized images of lavender hydrangeas, and had the appearance of having aged over an extended period of time, though it was perfectly obvious it was new. Along the thick and ornate crown molding was the matching border with both lavender and pale pink hydrangeas. The few wall hangings the room boasted were large, thick-matted, and framed in gold leaf. Cases of solid cherry held the books they were made for and photographs of Luke, his wife, and three children. The photos were also framed in gold leaf, though none were larger than five-by-seven.
The Secret's in the Sauce Page 4
