by Leslie Meier
She put the kettle on to boil and looked for something for lunch. As she had guessed, the kitchen was poorly stocked. The refrigerator contained nothing but a stick of butter, a tube of hemorrhoid ointment, a bottle of lemon juice, and a bag full of flash- light batteries
.
Shrugging, she turned to investigate the pantry, but found little there except a few cans of soup and vegetables. Standing on the floor, however, were quite a few empty sherry bottles. There was one on the shelf, half full, and she helped herself to a swig. Feeling its warmth spread through her, she took another.
Lucy popped the last four slices of bread in the toaster and dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup in a saucepan. She stirred in a bit of milk, and added some canned asparagus.
When she took the plates and cups out of the cabinet, she noticed that although they were neatly stacked, they were not very clean. Was it failing eyesight, she wondered, or too much sherry?
Lucy quickly washed the dishes and made a tray for Miss Tilley. Perching opposite her, with a plate balanced on her knees, Lucy quickly devoured her meal. She hadn't realized how hungry she was, or how tired. The morning's events had sapped her energy.
Zoe, also, was ready for lunch. Lucy picked her up and settled back in the couch to nurse and sip her tea.
Miss Tilley, she observed, was only playing with her food.
"You should try to eat."
"It's the speed," said the old woman, shaking her head. "These young people drive too fast."
"What do you mean?"
"If that young woman hadn't been driving so fast, I would have seen her."
Lucy sputtered in her teacup. "Are you saying the accident was Jennifer's fault?"
"Of course. It couldn't be my fault. I've been driving for seventy years, and I've never had an accident. I have a perfect driving record."
"What about my mailbox?" Lucy reminded her. "You knocked it right over. And Franny Small? You nearly smashed into her last week."
"Franny is notoriously absentminded. She shouldn't be al¬lowed to drive."
"And my mailbox? Did it leap in front of you?
"Well, it is in an awkward location..."
"Nonsense. It's precisely where it's supposed to be. And it's high time you stopped blaming everybody and everything for your own mistakes. You're too old to drive."
As soon as the words were out Lucy regretted them. Miss Tilley looked as if she'd been slapped in the face.
"I am not too old to drive. My father drove until the day he died. He was ninety-four."
And he probably died in one hell of a crash, thought Lucy, propping Zoe on her shoulder and burping her.
"Everyone is different. Don't forget the roads are busier now." Lucy laid Zoe down on the couch and began to change her diaper. "I think you should consider giving up your license. If you don't, after what's happened, I'm afraid they'll suspend it."
"Even though the accident wasn't my fault?"
"Enough," said Lucy, firmly snapping the diaper cover in place. "I saw everything. The accident was definitely your fault."
Miss Tilley poked at a piece of toast with her fork. Honestly, thought Lucy, she was as stubborn as a two-year-old.
Miss Tilley looked up. "If I surrender my license, I'll lose my independence."
"You could ride the Senior Shuttle," said Lucy, referring to a van service provided by the local Senior Council.
"With all those doddering fools and half-wits? And you can't go when you want. You have to make an appointment."
"Take a taxi, then."
"Think of the expense! Not to mention having Billy Smits knowing all my business."
"It's time to face facts. You need some help. To be honest, it seems to me you're not doing such a great job of housekeeping."
"Too busy." She waved a large, bony hand.
Lucy sat Zoe in her lap and held her tiny chest with one hand while she gently patted her back with the other.
"The house is dirty, you're not eating properly, you need to make some changes."
"Hmmph," said Miss Tilley, looking right past her head and out the window. "Look at handsome Mr. Bluejay, at the bird feeder."
Lucy turned and saw a bit of blue plastic bread wrapper caught on a twig.
"That's not," she began, but seeing the rapt expression on her old friend's face, she paused. "He is a handsome fellow, isn't he?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ted was just wrapping up an interview with Don Swazey, the owner of an impressive matchbook collection, when his pager went off. Glancing at the number, he asked permission to use the phone.
"It's me," he said to Phyllis, the imperturbable woman who answered the phone, took the classified ads, maintained the subscription list, and proofread all the copy.
"Oh, Ted, I think you better get over to Lenk's gas station. The scanner's been going crazy. Sounds like a bad accident."
"Damn," said Ted, who hated covering accidents. "I'm on my way," he said, and replaced the receiver. "Mr. Swazey, I'm afraid I've got to go. Do you mind if I take your picture for the paper?"
"Not at all. How about if I hold this one? It's the jewel in the crown of my collection," he said, proudly displaying an aged match-book printed with palm trees.
"Fine," said Ted, raising the camera. "Now, where's that one from?"
"The Coconut Grove nightclub in Boston."
"You don't say," said Ted, reaching for the proferred bit of cardboard. Everybody knew about the tragic Coconut Grove fire; Ted had recently seen a piece about it in New England Life magazine, complete with photos of charred victims, still seated at their tables. The fire was thought to have started when some paper palm-frond decorations caught fire in the popular night spot that was packed with soldiers celebrating the end of World War II. The fire grew very quickly, consuming all the oxygen, so that those who hadn't burned to death had suffocated. Only a handful of the hundreds who packed the club that night had survived.
"I was one of the lucky ones," Mr. Swazey said.
"You were there the night of the fire?" Ted asked.
"Nope. The night before. We were going to go the night of the fire, but my date had to work. She was a nurse. So we moved it up. I proposed to her that night. Pretty lucky, hunh?"
"I'd say so," Ted agreed. "Thanks for the interview. I'm sorry I've got to run."
Fires, thought Ted. These days it always seemed to be fires. At least an auto accident would be a change, he thought, as he drove to the scene. A nice spectacular crash for page one. Something where the car was a total wreck, but the driver walked away without a scratch. That way he wouldn't have to call the grieving family for information about the deceased.
Some life this is, he muttered, as the cop directing traffic away from the accident waved him through. Maybe it was time to give up small-town news and go into public relations.
Approaching the little Tercel, Ted swallowed hard. This looked like a bad one. Rescue workers had removed the roof of the little car, but were still unable to extricate the driver.
"Jeesus Christ," swore Fire Chief Pulaski. "Closest air bag's over at Wilton. Goddamn town meeting!" he exploded. Catching sight of Ted, he added, "And you can quote me on that!"
Ted nodded grimly, as the chief stormed past. Last spring Pulaski had asked town meeting voters to approve the purchase of a heavy-duty rescue air bag and they had turned him down. Now he had to borrow one from a neighboring town, losing precious time.
"Who's in the car?" he asked the kid who worked at the gas station.
"Jennifer Mitchell. The Medflight helicopter is on the way, but they can't get her out. Her legs are caught under the engine block."
Ted nodded. No wonder Pulaski was so upset. His daughter, Molly, played on the high school field hockey team with Jennifer. Ted usually covered the games, and had often seen Pulaski there, cheering the girls on. Ted remembered Jennifer running down the field in her regulation kilt, long blond hair streaming behind her, to score a goal.
That was
the trouble with small towns, he remembered a state trooper telling him. You knew everybody—the crooks, the troublemakers, and the victims. He was sick of writing about the people he knew, his friends, and the horrible things that happened to them.
"Copter's landed on the football field," he heard a firefighter tell the chief.
"Damn," said Pulaski. "Where the hell is Wilton?"
"Out of my way, Stillings." Ted recognized Police Chief Crow ley's gruff voice, and turned to face him. He was carrying a large aluminum case.
"Wilton broke down coupla miles from here," said Crowley. "Fella said you wanted this."
"Right," said Pulaski, reaching for the case. "C'mon, boys, let's get this thing under the engine."
As the men busied themselves positioning the airbag and starting the compressor, Ted began snapping pictures. He finished off one roll of film and reloaded, watching breathlessly as Pulaski gave the order and the airbag began to inflate.
At first, it seemed as if the weight of the engine block was too much for the bag; nothing moved. The compressor continued hissing and the bag grew larger and larger, until finally the crushed metal yielded, groaning in protest.
"Hold it there!" shouted Pulaski.
The fireman who was manning the compressor adjusted a valve, and the bag stopped growing. Ted held his breath; it seemed incredible that air pressure was powerful enough to lift the engine and keep it from crashing back down.
In a matter of seconds the medics had Jennifer out of the car and into the ambulance. Minutes later, Ted saw the helicopter rise into the sky and fly off toward the trauma unit at the hospital in Portland.
"That was pretty amazing," Ted said to Crowley.
"Nah," he answered. "Modern technology."
"Actually, I meant what you did. If you hadn't brought the airbag that girl would still be stuck in the car."
"It was nothin'," said Crowley. "I heard it on the radio, and happened to be in the vicinity."
"It's your day off," Ted persisted.
"What are you? Some kinda wise-ass, know-it-all reporter?"
Crowley's voice was just as gruff as ever, but Ted noticed a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
"You're damned right I am," he shot back. Ted gave him a quick salute and hurried back to his car. He had to get to the office. He had a story to write.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Leaving Miss Tilley's, Lucy also saw the Medflight helicopter, rising above the trees. She sent a little prayer along with it, as it banked and whirled off to the trauma center, the same prayer she had been repeating ever since the accident. Please, please God, let Jennifer be okay.
The poor girl must have been trapped in that car for at least an hour and a half, thought Lucy, as she started up the Subaru. That couldn't be good. Everything she knew about first aid stressed the fact that minutes could mean the difference between life and death. At least Jennifer had youth on her side, and was strong and healthy.
Miss Tilley, on the other hand, was old and weak, much weaker than anyone guessed. Now that she thought about it, Lucy could see a pattern of increasing intolerance. Miss Tilley had always been something of a character, but lately her tongue had been sharper and her wit more scathing. Lucy suspected this was her way of compensating for her increasing frailty.
The old woman had no family that Lucy knew of. Dear Poppa, as Miss Tilley always referred to her father, had died during the second Nixon administration. Miss Tilley always maintained that the shock of learning a Republican could be involved in something as disgraceful as Watergate had killed him.
With no family to take charge, Lucy knew she would have to assume the burden of making sure her old friend got the help she needed. There wasn't anybody else. Lucy decided to call the Senior Council as soon as possible to find out what resources were available.
Stopping at the traffic light on Main Street, Lucy spotted Toby and his constant companions, Eddie Culpepper, Adam Stillings, and Rickie Goodman. Stubby Phipps was trailing along after them, and if he didn't quite seem to be part of their group, they were tolerating him. Barney's social rehabilitation program seemed to be working.
They were probably headed to the scene of the accident, in hopes that the wrecked automobiles hadn't been towed away yet. She wondered if she should stop them. She could order them into the car and take them home, get out some board games, and cook up some popcorn in the microwave.
No, she thought. They might as well see. Maybe they would remember when they were driving themselves. Not, she thought with a sigh of relief, for at least a few more years.
Driving down Main Street, she passed the movie theater that had burned in July. The facade was boarded up with plywood, but the marquee bravely proclaimed the upcoming opening of an art exhibit.
COMING SOON it read in big black letters, COLLEGE ARTS COMPLEX. Smaller letters were arranged in the bottom row. "Premier show: The Red Zone."
A bit further along the road, Lucy saw the ruins of Doug Durning's real estate office. Like the Homestead, it had burned completely. Looking at the pile of charred timbers that remained, surrounded by official yellow tape, Lucy felt sick. It had been a beautiful old building, a real treasure, and now it was gone. What a shame. If this kept up the town wouldn't have any old buildings left.
"Oh my God," she said aloud, remembering the groceries in the wayback. At least there was no ice cream, she thought, grateful for small favors and crisp fall temperatures. Everything was probably fine.
By the time she got home she was so tired she was tempted to leave the groceries in the car for Bill to unload. Zoe didn't wake, however, when she lifted her out of the safety seat, so she decided she might as well get it done.
She was putting two boxes of instant oatmeal in the pantry, a buy one-get one-free special, when the phone rang.
"Lucy, it's Mira."
"Oh, hi," said Lucy. "How's everything?"
"Okay, I guess. I take one day at a time." Mira's voice sounded small.
"That's all you can do," said Lucy sympathetically.
"I wanted to let you know about the memorial service we've planned for Mom. It's Sunday, at First Parish here in Brookiine. Two o'clock."
"Thanks for calling," said Lucy. "We'll be there."
But when she hung up, Lucy realized she didn't want to spend an hour thinking about poor Monica, burned to cinders in her bed.
She didn't want to think about Jennifer, fighting for her life in a Portland hospital. And she didn't want to think about Miss Tilley, slowly decomposing in her musty, dusty old house.
Up until now, she thought, she'd been concerned with conceiving and planting and growing. That was her job—tending the garden, keeping the house, and raising the children. She had nothing to do with death. Even her father's sudden passing from a heart attack hadn't really touched her. She'd been so busy taking care of the details and helping her mother that she had barely noticed her loss.
But now, more than anything, she missed her father. She wished he could come back and sit in his favorite spot at her kitchen table. She remembered him there on Sunday mornings, with a mug of coffee and a cigarette, tackling the Times crossword puzzle.
He was gone. Sometimes she thought she saw him, an old guy in a plaid shirt jac and a tweed driving cap; sometimes she got a whiff of wool and cigarettes that reminded her so strongly of him, but it never was.
She brushed away a tear, feeling suddenly much older, and she knew she had crossed some invisible line. She heard a late autumn bluebottle fly buzzing at the window, and watched as it faltered, searching for an exit. There was only one way out—for the fly, for her, and even for baby Zoe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Promptly at ten on Halloween Lucy met Liz Kelly, the outreach worker from Senior Services in front of Miss Tilley's house. Liz was much heavier than Lucy expected, but she had given Lucy reason to be optimistic during their brief phone conversation the day before.
Liz hadn't hesitated to schedule an outreach meeting for Saturd
ay morning. After hearing Lucy describe Miss Tilley's situation she had agreed it required immediate action.
Today, however, Lucy was having doubts. As she watched Liz square her shoulders and march up to the front door, for all the world like a soldier going into battle, she wished she were certain this was the right thing to do.
"Good news," chirped Miss Tilley, as she opened the door. "The man from the auto body shop called and said my car will be just fine. There was no mechanical damage. He says it will be good as new once he pops out a few dents and slaps on some paint. His choice of words, not mine."
