She frowned. “Well, no, that wasn’t it at all.”
“Oh, then how can I help you?”
She lifted an inquisitive brow. “Well, now isn’t that peculiar? It’s just gone right out my head. You ought not to have been so sharp with me, Marlene. Gave me a real start, it surely did.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Liddy, but I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”
“Oh, of course. I understand, and I remember now. The Methodist church is having a rummage sale. Do you have anything to donate?”
I thought of the stacks of clothing, the boxes of junk crowding Beth’s house. Rocks. “Yeah, I think I might. When will the truck come around?”
Her features scrunched as she gave it thought. “Next Monday.”
“Monday would be great.” We said our good-byes and I got in my car and left. I fueled the rental car, then drove past the clinic. Vic’s truck was there, but I drove on. Ice cream—-had to get home before it melted. Not that I was inclined to stop anyway.
The phone was ringing as I walked in. I dumped the plastic grocery bags onto the table and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“That you, Marlene?”
“It’s me.” I didn’t recognize the caller.
“Prue Levitt Moss, calling from Maui.”
“Oh, yes, Prue.” I sank to the nearest chair. “How are you today?”
“Tolerable. Got a touch of gout in my knee. I moved here for a better climate for my arthritis and I get the gout. Way it goes.”
I held the phone away from my ear, staring at the receiver. The hussy was calling me and being nice? What brought this about?
“You there?”
I put the phone back to my ear. “Oh, yes. How nice to hear from you.” Nice? Really, Marlene. You’ve been waiting on pins and needles for this call.
“My lawyer has your proposition under consideration; we’ll get back to you on it.”
Good—this was good! “Thank you for calling. We’ll look to hear from you soon.”
“One other thing; if I come back to Parnass Springs, I’ll pay my own way. I’ll not be beholden to Ingrid.”
“No, couldn’t have that.” I frowned. Was someone on the extension? I peered around the corner into the living room, but Aunt Ingrid was nowhere around.
Suddenly Prue laughed. “You’re all right, Marlene. Not much like that sour-tempered aunt of yours. We’ll get along nicely.”
Good. “Get-along” was my middle name. Actually, I couldn’t wait to see who brought the biggest, most outrageous floral offering to Eugene’s grave.
Prue hung up and I started putting groceries away. Where was Ingrid? I hadn’t heard a peep from her since I got home. She had a lot in common with Petey; anytime she got this quiet, I best check on her. She was asleep in her chair, no doubt.
I turned and started for the door as Ingrid walked in. I grabbed my chest, feeling my heart shift into overdrive. “You’re walking!”
She stood straight and tall, both feet firmly planted, her ample form encased in an orange and yellow polyester dress. Circles of rouge the size of half dollars glaringly marked her cheeks.
She nodded. “Amazing, isn’t it. I’ve been healed.” She snapped her fingers. “Came over me just like that.”
“That fast?”
“It doesn’t take long when the Lord decides to move. I was just sitting in my bedroom when a voice seemed to say, ‘Ingrid, stand up,’ and I said, ‘Who, me? Lord?’ And then I got to my feet and I walked.”
“Really?” I thought about the suspicious click on the phone line. Had she eavesdropped on my and Prue’s conversation—of course! She figured she’d won and voilà, she was healed.
“I want you to take me to the church.”
“Church?” I echoed, feeling like I had lost my final grip on reality. “Why do you want to go to the church? There’s no one there.”
She fixed me with an eagle eye. “Au contraire. God’s there.”
Au contraire? This from Ingrid? “Granted, but what will we do when we get there?”
“I’m going to light a candle.”
I gawked. “You’re what? They don’t light candles in Mount Pleasant Church.”
“I’ll take my own. Quit arguing, Marlene. Let’s get cracking.”
“Yes, ma’am, whatever you say.” I tossed a bag of chips on the table and reached for the car keys.
“No need for sarcasm, not when there’s been a real-life miracle in our midst.” She turned and walked out of the house with me trailing along behind. I’d ended up in cuckoo land. No doubt about it.
And I needed to find my way back to sanity.
Later I sat down with pen and paper. There were varying feelings in this town over Herman—some good, some bad—-but everyone had something to say. Maybe someone should ask what I thought.
Maybe I should just tell them. I’d write an editorial and take it to the paper myself.
After staring into space for a few minutes, I started writing.
Dear Editor,
I find that disagreement is not only healthy, but encouraging. People of strongly differing views regarding a public statue of my father can have meaning ful and frank discussions and still maintain friendships and respect for one another.
I reread what I’d written, frowned and scratched it out. These people wouldn’t understand diplomacy. They needed hard facts.
Dear Editor,
Many think I was ashamed of my father, and often this was true. I didn’t show him the respect he deserved because, like so many others, I didn’t respect Herman’s limitations; I resented them. As I’ve matured, I have realized that I was wrong. My dad wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack, but the light of human kindness, compassion, and love of fellow man shone most brightly when he was around…
My pen flew over the paper. This was my life, my heart I was hanging out for everyone to see. I should be more discreet, but then detachment had led me to nothing but trouble so far. It was time for a different tack.
It took awhile, but I finally got my thoughts down. My words were eloquent, full of passion, but dignified. I’d never considered myself a writer, but now I was rather proud of my accomplishment.
Bill Haskel, owner and editor of Parnass Press, looked surprised when I walked into the office around nine thirty. “Marlene. Good to see you.”
“Hi, Bill. I’ve got an editorial. Will you publish it?”
He took the paper and read it. “Town’s really heated up over this statue.”
“I know. I’m hoping this will calm folks. I’d like them to hear a daughter’s voice.”
Bill read the editorial again. “You sure you want this in the paper?”
“Yes. That’s what I want.”
“All right, it’s your choice.”
Somehow I had a feeling choice wasn’t the word he had in mind. Funeral hovered at the edge of my mind, but I dismissed it. The letter came from my heart. Pertinent phrases drifted through my mind.
“A simple child…overlooked blessing to the world…Devoted to Parnass Springs, heart full of love…One of God’s angels…”
Nothing to inflame anyone. “You’ll publish it?”
Bill nodded. “I’ll send it to press, and then I’m going fishing.”
I wished him luck and drove home, a warm, cozy feeling in my heart. Herman would have been proud. I was proud.
Joe popped over. He stuck his head through Ingrid’s open back door. “Marlene! I’m taking Ingrid’s Buick for a lube job. The key’s in my truck if you need it.”
I put the last load of wash in the machine and dumped in soap. “Thanks Joe!” Good ole Joe; he took care of Ingrid’s car like he did his own. If she needed tires, he bought them; if she needed maintenance, he took care of it.
“If I need anything, I have the rental car.”
“No you don’t! It’s got a flat—I’ll fix it when I get back.”
Another flat! The tire must have had a slow leak for me not to notice it sooner. I p
ushed the start button on the washing machine.
“Marlene?”
I glanced up, startled to find Joe now in the utility doorway. “I knocked but you couldn’t hear me.”
Resting my hand on my heart, I caught my breath. “You scared ten years off my life.”
“I wanted to tell you that if you do take the truck anywhere and Ingrid goes with you, you’ll have to help her up. She can’t get in the cab on her own.”
“Okay, but I won’t be going anywhere this afternoon. Too much to do around here.”
“Well, she’s…er…quite a load.”
“I know, don’t worry. We’re staying here all afternoon.”
When I looked up again, he was gone.
I finished Ingrid’s chores and was about to eat a bite of lunch when she came into the kitchen fussing under her breath. “Got to get it paid—never noticed the date.”
“Did you say something? “I bent, rummaging in the refrigerator for leftover meat loaf.
“I’ve got to pay my electric bill.”
“Do you need a stamp?”
“Stamp won’t help. I have to pay it right now.”
I closed the door. “Right now?”
“Right now. You’ll have to drive me to the electric company.”
“Can’t you just mail it?”
“It’s due today. If I don’t pay it today, they’ll tack a penalty on it, and I can’t afford that.”
I opened a sack of bread and took out a couple of slices, still under the false assumption that I’d be enjoying a meat-loaf sandwich momentarily. “We’ll have to wait until Joe gets back with your car.”
“Can’t we take your rental car?”
“No, it has a flat.”
“Then we’ll take his truck. He won’t care—always leaves the keys in the ignition.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Ingrid, but Joe says you can’t get in the cab without help, and I can’t help you. I did something to my back trying to carry one of Beth’s rocks outside.”
The lower lip came out. “I can get in Joe’s truck.”
“He says you can’t—not without help. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“I can’t wait! The bill is due today, and if I don’t get it paid, they’ll penalize me.”
“You can’t get in Joe’s truck on your own.” She crossed her arms. “I can so.”
I smacked the bottom of the ketchup bottle, praying for restraint. A big blob shot out and spattered the front of my blouse. “You can’t. Joe said you couldn’t, and I can’t help because I don’t want to further agitate my back.”
“I can get in that truck.”
“You can’t!” And I thought Sara was willful. Dealing with Ingrid was like eating a caramel and getting it stuck in your back teeth.
“You just watch me.” Stomping to the back screen, she opened it, and was out the door in a flash.
Dropping the ketchup bottle, I bolted after her. By the time I ran across the street, she was at the truck. Jerking the door open, she shimmed up the high running board and into the front seat.
I arrived, breathless, and more than a little put out. Perched on Joe’s truck seat, Ingrid stared straight ahead. “I’m ready any time you are.”
Ready? No, I wasn’t ready! I had a meat-loaf sandwich waiting for me, my blouse had a ketchup splotch, and I hadn’t put on makeup today. But by now I was mad enough to bite nails.
“All right. I’ll get my purse.”
When I pulled up in front of the electric company, we hadn’t said two words to each other. Ingrid sat in the passenger seat, purse clutched to her middle, looking neither to the right nor left. She reminded me of a female General Patton on a field mission.
“I’ll wait in the truck.” I killed the engine.
“I want you to meet Estelle.”
“Estelle who?”
“Estelle Woods, my friend. She works here.” So. She did have a friend.
Looking like Godzilla on a bad-hair day, I got out of the truck and followed her inside. After introductions, Aunt Ingrid lingered to chat with her friend. Twenty minutes later we came out of the utility company and walked to the truck. Ingrid paused on the passenger side.
“Get in,” I called.
“I can’t. You’ll have to help me up.”
I’d heard of people seeing red, but I’d never experienced it until now. I could not believe my ears. She couldn’t get in?
“Get in, Ingrid. No kidding.”
Her stance turned belligerent. “I can’t. You’ll have to help me.”
I got out and slammed the cab door, then marched around the front of the truck imagining steam boiling from my ears. Facing Ingrid, I put my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, you can’t? You got in by yourself before.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m an old woman. I can’t get in. You’ll have to help me.”
My mind raced. What was the penalty for cold-blooded murder? Manslaughter. Temporary insanity. Sure, I could plead insanity. Maybe get off with ten years—serve on good behavior, be out by the time I was…
Whoa! Get a grip!
Marching back around the truck, I yanked open the door and searched for something—anything—to stand on. I spotted a block of wood on the floorboard.
The board landed at Ingrid’s feet. She looked at it, then at me.
“Get in.”
“I can’t.”
“You can!” I took her arm and nudged her onto the board. She balked, digging in her heels.
Finally I gave up and corralled her onto the running board, and then with my forehead bracing her generous backsides, I shoved. With an oomph, she settled, bringing her purse to her lap. She turned and met my furious look. “On the way home can we stop at the Dairy Dell for an ice cream? I’m in the mood for a Crusty Cow.”
I’ ll give her a Crusty Cow…
My editorial was featured in Friday morning’s paper. I read it over with a sense of prideful ownership. I had written this—every glowing word of it. I’d missed my calling. I should have been a writer instead of a nurse.
The phone was silent; no one called to compliment me on Herman’s well-written and heartfelt accolade.
And Vic was still holding out.
Midmorning, Joe marched up Beth’s walk, his bottom lip curled like a sausage link. What now? Everything was falling into place; one last town meeting regarding Herman and the statue, and I could go home.
The Parishes continued to garner town sympathy for their daughter while Herman’s supporters wavered. Sometime during the night, I’d decided to withdraw my consent. Again. I knew my vacillating character would be perceived as true to form from the nutty Moss family, but events of the past day had made me realize that God wanted the fiasco over—-finished. Or maybe I was the one who wanted it finished. I didn’t know anymore. Vic had bought the house; Ingrid was walking again. Sara had cooled, so maybe the brief time I’d been away had accomplished what I’d hoped—a stronger, more independent daughter who knew Mom was nearby, but who was capable of running her own household. In essence, my job was over.
Joe reached the porch and rapped on the screen with a rolled-up newspaper. His heightened color indicated something big was brewing. When I opened the door, he sailed by me. “Town’s gone nuts.”
“Tell me something new.” I lifted the coffeepot, motioning to an empty cup.
“No time for coffee this morning. Have you seen the paper?”
“Yes. Why?” I refilled my cup and set the chrome percolator on the counter. “I only had time to read my editorial.”
“It’s got the town in an uproar.”
“My editorial? What’s wrong with it?” I’d thought it was a nice tribute to my father. I took the paper and skimmed the column. My original letter, which had been written the day before, prominently led the discussion, but I had missed the long column of various letters either supporting me or taking me to task over my perspective.
“What are they talking about?”
“Your
father. Seems the Parishes, and now your editorial, have set off a real stink bomb.”
Stink bomb, indeed. My gaze followed a line of an opposing viewpoint:
Why the very idea of putting someone like Herman Moss on display for all to see…
Why couldn’t people love? Why couldn’t human beings see beyond the physical and reach to the heart of a man or woman. In today’s world, perfection had replaced goodness. Their attitude hurt, but I’d done the best I could. If people were offended, that was their problem. I was through. I folded the paper and laid it aside. “Talk will die down when I leave.”
“Leave?” Joe’s brow jutted up. “You just got back.”
“Vic bought the house. You know that, and you never did tell me what he plans to do with it.” Putting Joe in the middle was unfair. I knew it but couldn’t stop from serving my interests. “Will he live here?”
Joe turned the picture of ignorance. His face was a politically correct blank—a father’s vacant look when being questioned about a son’s business. “You know Vic. He makes investments. Never consults me. Just buys whenever the urge hits.”
I studied my friend, my confidant, my surrogate father—-and a terrible liar. Was he shielding me from more bad news? Reports of Vic and Lana. That was it! Vic purchased the house, and he and Lana’s relationship was more serious than I’d thought—more than even Joe had thought. My brain raced with alarming possibilities.
How dare Vic buy Aunt Beth’s house and move another woman in here!
“Marlene?” Joe’s voice barely penetrated my sanctimonious fog. What a fool I’d been! I should never have signed the papers. I’d sold too quickly. I should have kept the house as investment property. Parnass Springs was small, and rental property hard to find. What had I been thinking? I could have purchased the house from the estate and increased my monthly income.
“Marlene!”
“What!”
“Sit down. You’re white as a sheet.” Joe pulled me down into a kitchen chair and drew a glass of tap water. “Drink this and calm down.”
I couldn’t breathe. Air! “I’m having a panic attack.”
He grabbed for a plastic Wal-Mart sack lying on the counter. “Here, blow in this.”
I batted the bag away. “I’m not hyperventilating—I’m having a panic attack. And you have to use a paper sack, Joe. Not plastic.”
Simple Gifts Page 21
