Simple Gifts

by Lori Copeland

  “Oh, choice.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “We usually do what we want.”

  Yeah, right. I’d wanted Herman for a father. I’d wanted to be a single mother raising a child by myself. When I married Noel Queens, he promised me the moon. I’d thought we’d have a good marriage, though like most thoracic surgeons, he worked long hours. One night, when Sara was two, he left to make his hospital rounds and ended up in Vegas with a pretty psychiatrist. He’d made the rounds all right. Evidently he’d been making them for some time while carefully cleaning out our joint bank accounts and putting everything in his name.

  I’d divorced him and he’d married his psychiatrist. That marriage lasted seven years. The third wife managed to corral him for two years. Or maybe I had that wrong. It was possible she’d wised up quicker than wives number one and two.

  Aunt Ingrid shoved to her feet. “Well, I’ll be getting along and let the cat in. Saw the light on and wanted to make sure you were all right. Town’s not as safe as it once was. Some strange man stopped Mildred Folsom a month ago and wanted directions to Kansas City. Never know what crazies are running loose.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks for your concern.” She hadn’t mentioned Beth. Even in death, bitterness ruled.

  “I’m glad you’ve come home, Marlene. I’ve been praying that you’d come to your senses and move back to Parnass Springs. The town needs a firm hand, and I’m not going to be around forever.”

  “I’m only here a few days.”

  “Better stay longer. Vic needs a wife. Half the time his socks don’t match.”

  She wandered off into the darkness, and I stared after her, mouth hanging open. Was she going senile? Vic needs a wife? She knew I was married—at least she thought I was. As for the firm hand, not even in my wildest thoughts would I consider replacing Ingrid when she passed. I didn’t have that sort of Rottweiler mentality.

  I let myself in the front door, flipped on the lights, and tripped a circuit breaker.

  I yelped. The house was as dark as a witch’s heart. Please God, let it be a simple fix and nothing that requires an—I could barely bring myself to even think the word “electrician.”

  I groped my way upstairs, trying to find the circuit breakers in the dark. I reset the tripped one, then fumbled for a wall switch, and light flooded the room. Score one for Little Marlene.

  A yawn stretched my mouth. Fine. Trouble could just go away. My mission was simple: Rest. Get Beth’s house on the market. Break Sara’s dependency. Put the past behind me.

  I had four whole days left to complete those tasks.

  No problem.

  I’d no more than rolled out of bed Thursday morning before I heard someone pounding on the front door. Not even in my wildest expectations did I hope to find the plumber or roofer. Good thing, because I didn’t.

  I found Aunt Ingrid, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, as my Grandpa Parnass used to say.

  I stared at her disheveled appearance—crimson cheeks, eyes bright as a possum caught in a headlight. Was she having a heart attack? Her flushed face glowed tomato red, her eyes dilated. Prone as she was to dramatics, I’d never seen her so distressed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve heard from the hussy.”

  “The who?”

  “The hussy!”

  “Oh.” That hussy. Prue—the waitress who’d run off with Uncle Eugene…how long ago? Too many years to remember. Prue Levitt. No, make that Prue Levitt Moss. I didn’t think the two rivals spoke.

  “And?”

  “And you’ll never guess what that homewrecker wants.”

  I couldn’t. Not in a million years. To be truthful, I didn’t even want to try. All I wanted was to see a plumber’s or roofer’s truck pull up in front of the house.

  “She wants Eugene’s foot.”

  Okay. That got my attention. “Uncle Eugene’s foot?”

  “His foot.”

  “The one buried in the cemetery?”

  She looked at me like I’d left my common sense in Illinois. “He only had two. He took one to the grave with him. The other he left here, and if that woman thinks for one minute she’s going to get it, she’s sadly mistaken.”

  I shook my head. With any luck, I was dreaming. The cell phone sang out, and I ignored it. Sara could wait.

  “Why—“I paused, trying to clear my head—“Why would Prue want Uncle Eugene’s foot after all these years?” He’d been dead ten years—his whole body, I mean. The foot had been in the grave years longer.

  “To spite me.”

  “Aunt Ingrid. Surely the woman didn’t call—“

  “She didn’t call. Sent me a wire.” She waved a paper in my face. “Coward!”

  And I thought I had problems. “Why does she want the bone?”

  “Foot!” my aunt snapped. “She claims she can’t afford to have the whole body shipped to Maui. She can only pay to have the foot shipped, said she was tired of not having something of Eugene to pay her respects to.”

  Good grief. I wanted to slap my forehead in a V8 moment. Uncle Eugene. They were still haggling over him.

  “Well, Prue Levitt can jump off a cliff. That foot isn’t going anywhere. I’ll turn the whole mess over to the mayor. It’s his job to deal with nutcases.”

  I took a deep breath. I was pretty sure a mayor wouldn’t concern himself in a catfight over a severed limb. Especially not this mayor. “Aunt Ingrid, I think the two of you should work this out and not involve Vic.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t talk to the shameless broad. You’ll be my go-between. I’ll tell you what to say, and you can tell her where to get off.”

  Tell her where to get off, my brain mouthed. I didn’t tell people where to get on, let alone off. This wasn’t my fight. I had enough problems of my own, and I was not getting involved in this spat. Ingrid was on her own.

  Aunt Ingrid wasn’t through. “That lunatic. If it hadn’t been for her, Eugene would be here, in Parnass Springs instead of Kansas. Said she didn’t have enough money to bury him—I would have buried him! I’d have someone to carry flowers to on Memorial Day. How do you think I feel hauling a bouquet to a foot? Everyone in town has someone under a gravestone. I have a foot.” Ingrid drew a fortifying breath and crossed her arms. “I’m keeping it.”

  I stepped back, closing my eyes and watching my last few days in Parnass going straight down the tube.

  “Oh, by the way, you have to head a committee.”

  My eyes flew open. “Committee? What committee?”

  “The animal shelter wants to pay homage to Herman.”

  “Herman?”

  “Your father. Herman.”

  My heart sank. Why would anyone want to pay tribute to him?

  “If you’re wondering why, I’ll tell you young lady. When Eugene died, he left his son a large trust. Your father’s grandparents had old money. They never used a cent that wasn’t necessary, so it accumulated to a large estate. Since you’d never accept anything from Herman, he had an animal shelter built in your name, gave money to the public library, and then put the rest in a trust for you. Didn’t know that, did you? You thought he was so ignorant he couldn’t feel love. Well, he did, young lady, and that shelter is a monument to you. He didn’t want you to know, but I think it’s about time you accepted your responsibility. The shelter’s requested a statue of Herman be erected on the front lawn. As his daughter, you will head the committee.”

  My mouth flapped like a battered flag. Being Herman’s daughter wasn’t enough? I now had to face the shame of erecting a lawn statue on a public site in his honor? I groped the doorway for support.

  No way…Absolutely no way, would I subject myself to this disgrace.

  And there was no way she could make me.

  Four

  Who owns the foot?” R J Rexall, senior partner of Rexall, Rexall, and Bextal, Attorneys-at-Law, reared back in his chair on Friday and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if the answer to the perplexing problem flashed in red neon
up there. I suppressed a sympathetic smile. Ingrid had little use for Rexall’s son or his nephew, Bextal, but she agreed with R J’s counsel some of, if not all, the time. I prayed this would be one of the rare moments when a client took the paid lawyer’s advice, though I didn’t count on it.

  “No need to waste time. All I want is a legal paper to get that woman off my back.” My aunt was a pitiful sight this morning. I’d pleaded with her to at least comb her hair, but she said—her exact words—“Let others see what the Husband Stealer’s done to me.” The Husband Stealer being Prue Levitt, of course, who wouldn’t be there to see her. I’d tried to talk reason to the woman and where did it get me? Sitting there listening to her argue with her attorney, that was where.

  I’d even gone to Joe for advice, and he was no help. He said he didn’t think I had much choice; Ingrid was old and couldn’t fight this battle. She’d need help, and much as he hated to say it, it was a Christian’s duty to help kin.

  “Now Ingrid.” R J, an austere-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and dressed in a dark, designer-label suit and bright red tie, peered down the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to research this matter since I’ve rarely, if ever, dealt with anything quite like it.”

  Well, no kidding. I uncrossed my legs and tried to squeeze feeling back into my foot. I’d be willing to bet there were few, if any, lawyers who’d faced this kind of quandary. But when I remembered how much he charged for his services, my sympathy evaporated for the controversy he’d have to confront.

  Ingrid’s lip puckered. “Do whatever you want, but I’m telling you, the foot belongs to me.”

  I gave her a warning look. We’d had a long conversation on the drive over about cooperation, tact, and manners—all things Ingrid not only lacked but apparently wasn’t interested in acquiring. She’d promised to be nice, but it seemed we each had a different concept of the word.

  “Granted, one could argue that Prue was married to Eugene at the time of his death—“

  “On paper only. They were in the process of divorce.” Ingrid’s expression was as belligerent as a disgruntled pug with a grudge.

  “I understand, nevertheless, one could argue that the present wife would have certain rights. On the other hand, there’s a valid argument that the whole matter would be determined by Eugene’s estate, which I understand was in a bit of a muddle when he passed.”

  “Eugene didn’t worry much about technicalities.” Ingrid twitched at the light sweater around her shoulders. “His folks had to bury him. I wanted to, but Ms. Levitt refused my offer.”

  R J delivered a patient expression. “Understood. Lacking a will or trust, by intestate law—“

  “Eugene’s foot is not an asset of the will. It’s a completed gift.” Ingrid’s tone didn’t brook dissent.

  The attorney nodded, and I saw at least four more gray hairs pop out on his temple. If we stayed here much longer the man would look downright distinguished, elderly statesman and all that. What was I doing here in Rexall, Rexall, and Bextal’s office when I vowed I would stay out of the catfight? I didn’t know to whom the foot belonged, but I figured it didn’t really matter except to two women intent on taking their grudge to the grave.

  Literally.

  “I’d like to counter sue.”

  I choked, Aunt Ingrid’s unexpected declaration catching me off guard.

  R J’s carefully molded brow furrowed like uneven corn rows. “Pardon?”

  “I want to counter sue.”

  “For what intent?”

  “I want Eugene moved back to Parnass Springs.” She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the attorney. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to take flowers to a foot?”

  He shook his head, looking slightly dazed, and sent another glance toward the ceiling. I could almost hear him asking, “Why me, Lord?” I identified with the sentiment.

  Ingrid persisted. “Not pleasant, I can assure you. I want Eugene moved here, buried in his rightful plot, the one he purchased when he was alive. He knew where he wanted to be buried or he wouldn’t have bought the space.”

  “Aunt Ingrid.” I found my voice, keeping my tone gentle but firm. “You can’t sue Prue for Eugene’s body. She had nothing to do with his resting place. His parents buried him in Olathe because his divorce to Prue wasn’t final when he died, and well—you know she didn’t have the funds at the time to see to the matter.” I thought over what I’d just said. Sue Prue? Sounded like the schoolmarm in an old-time B western, which I was sorry to admit, I was old enough to remember. But she really couldn’t bring a lawsuit in a case like this, could she? One look at her tight lips and high color, and I figured she could do anything she pleased, and nothing I could say would make any difference. But I had to try.

  She squinted at me. “So?”

  “So. Who are you suing?”

  “Prue. I’ll sue her twice. She shouldn’t have buried him in Olathe—I told her not to—told her he had a perfectly good grave here in Parnass Springs, but would she listen to me?” She snorted.

  R J offered me a look that asked, “Is she senile or what?”

  I couldn’t say; she wasn’t thinking clearly and she’d always hinged on the unconventional, but this was disgraceful. I leaned close to her, keeping my voice to a whisper. “Mr. Rexall’s fee is one hundred twenty-five dollars an hour.”

  That should grab her attention. It had certainly grabbed mine.

  She paled, shifted in her seat, and swallowed hard. “I’ll spend every cent if I have to.”

  Exhuming a body that wasn’t yours and a foot that had been buried for over a decade, would take time and a good deal of money. Of that I was certain. I was even more certain it was time I didn’t have to spare. Sara needed me.

  But, according to Joe Brewster, so did Aunt Ingrid.

  Exactly where did my responsibilities lie? Here in Parnass Springs with Aunt Ingrid, whose health was clearly failing, or with a healthy, helpless daughter who depended on me to make the world revolve.

  Either scenario gave me the willies.

  R J dismissed the meeting with the promise to research the subject and get back to Ingrid.

  Ingrid, who had reached the door, now paused. “Why are you researching?”

  “To ascertain your rights.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m keeping the foot.” She turned and hobbled out of the office.

  Rexall looked as helpless as I. I understood only too well the air of relief I glimpsed in his expression as I closed the door behind us. Lucky me, I was the designated driver.

  I got in the car and waited until she was belted in before starting up the motor. One glance at the set of her jaw and I knew we hadn’t accomplished one thing. Might as well have stayed at home and missed the whole humiliating episode.

  On the way home, Ingrid requested that we stop at the covered bridge. The scenic spot had been Eugene’s favorite. Ronald Parnass, Ingrid’s grandfather, had single-handedly built the passage using a horse and wagon to haul the heavy limestone gleaned from the hillsides.

  Ingrid’s melancholy, albeit belligerent, disposition conquered her mood. I drove to the bridge hoping to sweeten her attitude, but not really expecting much from the effort.

  I’d forgotten how pretty it was there. We sat in the car, admiring the spring morning. Birds chirped. Bright new green ivy covered the historical attraction. Tourists often stopped to admire the piece of history. Vic and I had sat beneath this monument so many summer nights, watching the carnival lights.

  Every spring, large semitrucks would pull into town and set up shop on the open grounds adjacent to the bridge. Ferris wheels, the tilt-a-whirl, bumper cars, and the whip occupied our minds for a full week. Vic and I had gone every night just to ride the Ferris wheel and spit off the top.

  As sweet as my memories were, I knew Ingrid also had her poignant recollections. “Did you and Eugene come here often?”

  She sat staring at splattered raindrops rolling down the windshield, her watery eyes mirro
ring…what? Hurt? Did tough-as-a-thirty-cent-steak Ingrid, my Aunt Ingrid, hurt? Could anyone who vowed to hold on to a mere bone have a conscience? She’d never shown any sign of having one.

  “I loved him, you know.”

  I reached over and rested a hand on her arm. For all her tough veneer, she was brittle; her life was crumbling to an end. You couldn’t have picked two more unlikely people to fall in love: staid librarian and flashy, but homely, traveling tire salesman.

  Eugene hadn’t been much for looks, but he knew how to dress, and personality oozed from his pores. He must have dazzled a younger Ingrid. Eugene had loved Ingrid; trouble was, he loved all women; the more the better. With one failed marriage behind him, and a mentally challenged child in the wings, he’d swept Parnass Springs and Ingrid off her feet. The marriage had been a good one for years, before Devil Restlessness had again attacked Eugene.

  He’d gotten involved with a pretty young café waitress, and that was that. The tire salesman quit his job and family, and left Ingrid alone with bookshelves full of romance novels. Bitterness set in, and Ingrid persisted in a vegetative state. Parnass Springs, in spite of its sterling community, held hurtful memories not only for its young but for the aged.

  “Tammy Wynette had it right.”

  “About what, Aunt Ingrid?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman.” She drew a deep, gut-wrenching breath. “Givin’ all your love to just one man.” Another profound breath. “He’ll have the good times. You’ll have the bad times.”

  She got that right. No one knew better than I the joys and pitfalls of womanhood. Eve should have thought before she leaped. The craziest notion came over me then.

  I wanted to confess my lie of all these years, to tell Ingrid about Noel and my hurt.

  Why not? Certainly she’d understand, maybe better than I did. But cowardly Marlene pushed back the thought, afraid that in one of my aunt’s less defenseless moments, she would blurt out the truth—and the truth would find Vic.

  Oh, I didn’t kid myself. My day of reckoning was imminent, I just wasn’t ready to face it. I didn’t try to kid myself that I’d take my secret to the grave. I would be found out, I just wasn’t sure how and when. If lucky—really lucky—I would leave Parnass Springs with Vic none the wiser about my failure. Only God knew my secret, and that was bad enough.