A Rose by the Door

by Deborah Bedford

  “Sounds like a fool idea to me, Gemma Lee. Sure don’t see no sense earning money for a graduation gown you aren’t going to wear.”

  “Of course I’m going to wear it. Everybody has to wear one when they walk across the stage.”

  Those hands, hulling peas, breaking off the tapered ends, peeling strings until the shells popped open. Peasplunking against the sides of the bowl—a hollow, helpless sound that Gemma would never forget.

  “You heard what I said. Don’t pretend you didn’t understand it.”

  “The principal said I could graduate with my class, Grandma. They’ve already decided.”

  “Turn sideways, child.”

  When Gemma hesitated, Grandma Hardeman picked up the flyswatter beside her. She waved it in the air as if she planned to whack something with it.

  “Did you hear me? I said turn sideways.”

  Gemma turned sideways.

  “No grandchild of mine is going to walk across a stage looking like that. Strutting around like a barnyard goose, growing fatter by the minute. Everybody in town already knows what happened with that Jimmy Forrester boy. Everybody in town already knows you’re Pee-Gee.”

  “Grandma.”

  Doreen gave a curt nod toward Gemma’s midsection. “That baby in your belly ain’t never gonna amount to anything. Nothing that starts its life out in sin ever does.”

  That had been Grandma Hardeman’s opinion then. Her opinion had not changed since. Not since she had forbidden Gemma to attend the high school graduation ceremony. Not since she had forbidden Gemma to set foot anyplace in town where anyone might see her protruding belly. Not since she had finally waved Gemma off, telling her she had to make her own way, that there wasn’t anyway she, Doreen Hardeman, was getting coerced into raising another kid.

  “I paid my dues the first time around with your mother. Then I paid my dues double the second time around with you. I’m an old woman and there’s no way in flip I’m going to get stuck again. You get rid of that sin baby some way, you’ll be welcome to come back here.”

  “I’ll take care of her, Grandma. You won’t have to do anything. I promise.”

  “Yeah,” the old woman stated with sarcasm. “I’ve heard that story plenty of times before.”

  “I’m sorry I did what I did with Jimmy, Grandma. But you’re getting two things mixed up. If you don’t runaway from some bad choice you make, then I think something good can come instead.”

  Gemma hadn’t given up hope even after she’d gotten a job waitressing. Even after she’d sublet a room in an old, dilapidated house with three other girls. Even after the first time she’d held her own tiny, slippery daughter in tremulous arms. If only Grandma would look at her. I wish she could see what I see.

  But Doreen Hardeman had never come to see the baby.

  Now they’d been turned away from Mrs. Bartling’s house, too. Fear edged its way into Gemma’s spirit. They had nothing to eat for their next meal. They didn’t know a soul in this strange town and nightfall was fast approaching.

  Gemma and Paisley walked toward downtown Ash Hollow without talking, green acorns crunching every few steps beneath their feet, the suitcase and the jackets bumping against Gemma’s left knee. The sun was beginning to sink behind the grasslands, turning the sky the soft, gray color of a kitten. Overhead in the trees, katydids had begun to hum.

  Paisley kicked an acorn. It bounced onto the grass. “Why didn’t we stay there, Mama?”

  “Because she didn’t ask us.”

  “Why didn’t she ask us?”

  “Because she doesn’t know who we are.”

  “Oh.” That brought on a long measure of silence. Then, “Are we going home now, Mama?”

  Gemma shook her head. “Where’s that, Paisley Rose? Where are you thinking that we’ve got a home?”

  “It was a home. Where we lived with Nathan. I liked my bed.”

  Gemma tousled her hair. “It wasn’t a bed at all, little girl. It was a breakfast table in a camper with the benches folded down.”

  “I liked it when you made spaghetti and we had candles. I liked it when Nathan put a sock on his hand and came up over the table like a puppet. I liked it when Nathan cooked supper and tucked me in.”

  “Yeah.” Gemma backhanded her eyes. “I liked it, too.”

  The mention of supper filled Gemma with new despair. She had no idea where she could scrounge up their next meal. She had no idea where they would sleep tonight.

  All the miles they’d driven, all the times they’d slept at roadside parks or the car had acted like it was about to blow up, the only thing she’d aimed for was that one moment—climbing the steps to Mrs. Bartling’s house, knocking on the door, saying, “My name is Gemma and I’ve come to meet you. I’m Nathan’s wife.”

  You should have come home a long time ago, Nathan.

  Gemma felt cold panic start somewhere between her shoulder blades and trickle down her spine. Fear swamped her. Where are we going to sleep? My daughter has no food.

  They walked on a little further before she was able to keep her voice even enough to say, “We can’t go back to that place in Omaha. Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nathan had that place because of working at the meat plant. Now that he’s gone, somebody else gets to live there. Somebody else who works at the meat plant.”

  “Somebody else gets to sleep in my bed?”

  It wasn’t a bed. Only a table with two benches folded down. “Yeah, some other little girl.”

  The only two places in town she knew how to find were the gas station and the museum. “You tired?” Paisley’s legs were short and they’d walked a long way.

  Paisley nodded.

  “We’re almost to the museum. You want to stop?”

  “What’s at a museum?”

  A mosquito buzzed Gemma’s ear but, because she had too many other worries, she didn’t bother to swat it away. “Things to look at. A place to rest.”

  Paisley kicked another acorn. “Yeah, let’s go there.”

  The museum, when they found it, was built of large sandstone blocks, whitewashed and gleaming, with a steep, pitched roof and weathered shingles overlaying one another like scales on a wide-mouth bass. The sign on the front door read “Free to the public. Summer Hours: 9 A.M. to 8 P.M. Winter Hours: By appointment only.”

  They entered and were met with the pungent, magic smell of old, cherished things. No one greeted them at the reception desk.

  “Hello?” Gemma stood on tiptoe and lifted her chin, trying to spot the museum proprietor. “Anybody here?”

  No one answered.

  Gemma and Paisley waited for five minutes or so. When still nobody came, they took it upon themselves to amble into the cavernous exhibit room filled with spotlights and mannequins and a labyrinth of glass cases. Once inside, they found any number of amazing items on display. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a pocket watch and a business log belonging to a man named Cy Frates who had founded the Ash Hollow bank. A headless mannequin wearing a lace wedding dress. A pair of salt and pepper shakers shaped like someone’s false teeth, the salt pot constituting the upper jaw, the pepper pot constituting the lower.

  “Would you want that on your table?” Gemma asked in a hushed voice.

  “It looks like it would bite.”

  They perused two ancient fire trucks, a wing from a biplane with a placard that read, “First known crop duster in Nebraska,” and three volumes of black leather-bound ledgers, hand lettered with a fountain pen and an inkpot, of cash receipts from the Lewellen Country Store. They discovered a collection of wicker doll buggies, a primitive operating table, and a shelf of apothecary jars—some still labeled—containing moldy black stains.

  Since they’d arrived in the museum, their conversations had continued in barely audible whispers. A cer tain reverence seemed in order. Here, lost among old-fashioned belongings and treasures, Gemma’s panic ebbed. It became possible to forget their plight for a while, to forge
t how far they had come and how desperate they were and how Mrs. Bartling had turned them away.

  “What’s that?” Paisley asked softly.

  “It’s a row-crop plow, drawn by horses. And that’s an X-ray machine.”

  The second mannequin they happened past wore a brown velvet shirtwaist and a traveling skirt. Someone had set a wicker valise alongside to give the impression of a person just arrived on a train. For the time being, this seemed as good a place as any to stow their suitcase. Gemma piled the jackets and their own luggage next to the valise—a modern, plastic, pink bag flanking the historic wicker one. Ah. It felt wonderful not to be carrying things.

  They found themselves in the middle of a reconstructed kitchen with a cast-iron meat grinder and spice tins in a row. A brass plaque on the wall read “The Willa Cather rooms.” A washtub hung from its handle beside a nickel-plated stove. Paisley whispered, “We’re in somebody’s house.”

  “I can see that.”

  But they weren’t in the house where Gemma had dreamed of being welcomed. They weren’t in the house where Gemma had thought they might, in some form or fashion, find a new home.

  “Oh, Mama. Come look.” Paisley had found the parlor. In the middle stood a table set with embroidered linen napkins and china plates, each of them scalloped around the edges like a seashell. Curlicues of silver adorned each fork, knife, and spoon. Everything lay polished and clean, as if someone had just arranged the table to her satisfaction and supper was nearly ready to come out of the oven.

  After being so soundly turned away from the Bartling household, it seemed strange to stand in the midst of such a welcoming room. Gemma placed a fist beneath her breast, touching the big lump of emptiness that welled inside her. She sighed and dropped her fist. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  “I wish we lived in a house like this. Mama, her house is like this.”

  “Who?”

  But Gemma already knew. Mrs. Bartling’s house.

  “She’s got dishes, and fancy forks and glasses that ring when you thump your fingers on them.”

  “Paisley. You don’t know that. You didn’t see them.”

  “But I can think about them.”

  “No sense talking about things that don’t matter.”

  “She had a candle that smelled like oranges and a glass bottle of lotion and a box of matches.”

  “Why were you worrying about her matches? You know you mustn’t touch matches.”

  “I didn’t touch them, Mama. I just looked. The same as we’re doing here.”

  From somewhere in the distance, Gemma heard the jangle of keys. She glanced up. “It must be nearly closing time. We’d better leave.” But where will we go?

  “I don’t want to leave. I like it here.”

  “We’ll come back another day.”

  “Please, Mama.”

  “No.”

  Gemma took Paisley by the hand and pulled her along, starting out the way they’d come, weaving to and fro among the display cases, past the traveling suit and the luggage, where she gathered their belongings.

  “Mama, I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Are we going to eat?”

  She finally had to say it, finally had to admit her failure—she didn’t have the means to care for them any longer. “I don’t think so.” Gemma had seen a coffee shop down the street. Perhaps they’d let her sweep up tonight or wash dishes in exchange for a meal. “We don’t have any money left. I spent the rest at the Kwik Stop.”

  Paisley was quiet for two minutes, probably thinking about no supper. “Mama, I’m scared.”

  Those three, simple, anxious words magnified Gemma’s desolation tenfold. Everything I’ve done up until now, I’ve done to protect my child. It all came down to this. She had let her daughter down again. Paisley doesn’t feel protected when she says “I’m scared.”

  Gemma heard sharp footsteps, the closing of a door. The lights had been dimmed in the front room by the desk, but the spotlights still glowed.

  “I wish Nathan was here, Mama.”

  “Sometimes I think he is. Sometimes I think he still looks at us, that he’s gone somewhere but he can still see us here.”

  “Do you think, if he sees us, that he’s happy or sad?”

  Gemma thought about that. “Both. I think he’s both.”

  They’d gotten to the front of the museum, but the reception desk was still empty. Gemma glanced around and couldn’t find a soul. “I don’t know why no one is ever at this desk.”

  “Mama, it’s dark in here.”

  “Well, it is. I don’t know what’s—” She stopped. She glanced around them as the truth began to dawn. “Wait.” Gemma ran to the door and tried the handle. It rattled, but didn’t open. “Wait.”

  “Mama?”

  “Hey.” She rattled the door again. “Don’t leave. We’re in here.”

  Paisley had trailed toward her, her head of disheveled curls appearing out of nowhere at Gemma’s side. Together they peered out the window. Together they banged on the glass.

  “Hey! We’re locked in. Let us out!”

  No one came. Outside, the one strong floodlight illuminated a yard sign that read, “Garden County Pioneer Museum.” The street was empty, the parking lot bare.

  There would be no supper for Paisley, no finding anyone to help. The police would be summoned and they’d be arrested for breaking and entering. Only they hadn’t broken in. They’d been here, not trying to hide from anyone at all.

  Gemma trudged back to the desk, Paisley in tow, wondering if they might set off alarms. She almost wished they would. Then somebody could come and find them. Gemma held her breath, waiting for something to happen, for lights to start flashing or cameras to blink on or for the loud trill of a security system to announce their presence. But no sound shattered the still ness, not noises or beeps or buzzers.

  “Looks like we’re going to be here a while,” Gemma said, falling back into a whisper.

  “Mama? Why are we whispering? Nobody can hear us.”

  “You’re right.” Gemma straightened her shoulders somewhat and raised her voice, with just a hint of reassurance in her smile. “No one can hear us at all.”

  “Can we go back now? To see those rooms?”

  Gemma considered before she answered. “I don’t think so. We ought to sit right here where we won’t cause any trouble.” Or where, if someone walked past on the sidewalk outside, they could pound on the glass and make themselves known.

  Side by side they sat on the floor and bunched their knees beneath their chins. Side by side they waited on a hard wooden floor until their leg bones ached and their bottoms went numb. They clasped their shins, laced their fingers, and rocked back and forth, back and forth. After a while, Paisley gave up. She leaned her head against her mother’s thigh and yawned.

  “You getting sleepy?”

  A wordless nod bunched Gemma’s skirt.

  Gemma did her best to think ahead. Perhaps if she rummaged through the drawers in the reception desk, she might find something to help them. Maybe a package of saltines. A candy bar. A key. But it seemed slightly dishonest, rummaging through somebody else’s things, and she didn’t want to set a shameless example. She didn’t want Paisley to be disappointed, most of all, in case she found nothing there.

  She would search the desk after Paisley fell asleep.

  “I’ll tell you what. I don’t guess it would hurt any if we had a look at those rooms again.”

  “Really?”

  “Let’s do.”

  Gemma gathered Paisley against her, heart to heart, their arms intertwined, the little girl’s legs locked in a vise around the brim of her mother’s hips, the dead weight of her tired body twice as heavy to carry.

  This time, as Gemma lugged her daughter through the odd assortment of antiques, the museum didn’t feel magical anymore. She set Paisley down in the parlor beside the table that had been laid out to perfection and fingered one of the forks.

/>   We’ve found a safe, warm place for tonight. Just for tonight.

  Tomorrow would take care of itself when it came.

  The only room they hadn’t viewed was the bedroom. Gemma bent around the corner and peeked in. A scrolled wrought-iron bed with both a headboard and a footboard, swathed in a crocheted coverlet and set dead center in the room; a chair made of black cowhide and a jumble of antelope horn; white lace curtains covering an imaginary window; a rusty milk can in the corner holding a clump of Nebraska grama grass, Indian tobacco, and cattails.

  “Oh, Mama,” Paisley breathed. “Let’s pretend this is our house and we live here. Can we?”

  Gemma didn’t hesitate for more than a moment. “Yes, let’s pretend.”

  They untied their shoes, pushed them off with their toes, and climbed on the bed.

  Looks could be deceiving. The bed wasn’t as squashy as they’d hoped. What Gemma had expected to be a soft mattress with hay ticking was really only a wooden platform with thick linens spread over it to make it appear cozy.

  But the pillows were real, and if Paisley curled herself tight and tucked her knees against her belly, she could just fit her socks and feet beneath the two jackets that Gemma arranged over her.

  “Are you going to stay warm enough, little one?”

  Paisley nodded into the monogrammed pillowcase, her eyes already half closed.

  Gemma stretched out beside her daughter and they snuggled, their bodies nesting against each other like two ladles.

  She whispered, “I love you, Paisley.”

  “I love you, too,” Paisley whispered back.

  Gemma lay against her daughter in the room where they shouldn’t be, trying not to hear their stomachs growl, trying not to give in to the wave of emptiness that terrified her more than anything thus far. Then half because it was true, and half because it made her feel lonely to think of Paisley falling off to sleep yet, she said, “Your toes are sticking out again. Here. Let me get them underneath the coats.”

  She folded the hem and sleeves of her jacket around Paisley’s little wrinkled socks.

  Paisley smiled and whispered against the pillow. “This is just like Nathan used to do, Mama. This is just how he always tucked me in.”