by Anne George
“I don’t think that’s politically correct anymore, Fred.”
There was a silence while we stopped at a light. Fred drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “What?” I said.
“What do you mean, what?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“An African-American Mary Alice. Two Mary Alices.”
“When you meet her, you’ll see what I mean. They even have purses alike.”
Fred turned into the restaurant parking lot. “I don’t want you to get involved in this, Patricia Anne. I really don’t. Okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’m sure the police are going to want to know why I threatened Sister, though.”
“You threatened Mary Alice?”
“When she taped me snoring. Or at least she said I was snoring.”
“Am I missing something here?”
I explained again about the message on the answering machine, though I had already told him once. While I was retelling it, I was reminded of the way Sister had gone rushing back to Debbie’s without insisting that I go with her. She was over there now, talking to the police and in all sorts of danger, and here I was at Morrison’s takeout parking lot. She could at least have argued with me a little.
“Probably some simple explanation,” Fred said. He patted my leg. “What do you want for supper?”
This was what I needed to hear, wasn’t it? Then why didn’t it make me feel better? Because Fred was being patronizing? On the other hand, he wasn’t the one who had been there, who had gone through the roller coaster of emotions that I had gone through today.
“Vegetables,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what kind. I’ll wait in the car.”
As soon as Fred left the car, I reached under the seat, got the phone and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. Sister had had plenty of time to get to Debbie’s.
After the second ring, someone picked up and I could hear heavy breathing. Then there was a low moan, a gasped “Oh, oh!”
My heart nearly stopped. “Debbie! Is that you? Debbie?”
“Oh, hi, Aunt Pat. That was Fay saying hello. She’s grabbing the phone away from me again. Say hello to her.”
“Oh?” I could hear Debbie coaching her. “It’s Aunt Pat, darling. Say hello to Aunt Pat.”
“Oh?”
“Hello, sweetheart. Hello, my baby girl.” My heart was assuming its normal rhythm.
“Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”
I could just see that precious child with the phone. Sometimes I feel the lack of grandbabies living close by like a great void. Alan’s two are teenagers and live in Atlanta, and Freddie says he doesn’t want children. Besides, he’s in Atlanta, too. My only hope is knowing Haley wants children so much. Sometimes I wish she would visit the University of Alabama at Birmingham sperm bank like Debbie did. But Haley wants a husband and a father for her children. She had known that kind of love once and knows it is possible.
“Aunt Pat?” Debbie’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“What’s going on over there, darling?”
“You mean about the message on the phone? Nothing. You know how Mama tends to exaggerate things. Richardena says she turned the tape recorder off when she went in and saw it was on, and the twins were with her, so anything could have happened.”
“I thought we turned it off,” I said. I didn’t tell her I was the one who had fallen apart first when we heard the message.
“Did you call the police?”
“Of course not.”
“You honestly think it was done accidentally?”
“Absolutely.”
She sounded so positive and so unconcerned, I felt my fright begin to subside. Maybe I had overreacted. Maybe one of the babies could have hit the right sequence of buttons. It certainly wasn’t impossible. I got to the second reason for my call.
“Did you see Henry?”
“He was already gone when I got there. What was this about handcuffs, Aunt Pat? Sheriff Reuse, who is a very nice man, incidentally, just asked him if he would come in so they could get some details straight about the people who worked at the Skoot ’n’ Boot and the regular customers.”
“The handcuffs were your mother’s idea,” I was proud to relay.
“Well, there weren’t any. I’m sorry you and Mama got mixed up in this, though. Mama’s sitting at the kitchen table right now having a ‘toddy for the body’ that looks like an eight-ounce glass of pure vodka.”
“Tell her I turned the alarm on at her house. You may want to drive her home.”
“She’s fine, Aunt Pat. And don’t worry about that phone call. That guy’s murder has just spooked you. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
Fred’s exact words. But somehow when Debbie said them, they didn’t sound so patronizing. I told her I would talk to them later and hung up just as Fred got in the car and handed me a plastic bag.
“Macaroni and cheese, lima beans and mashed potatoes,” he announced happily. “An orange, green and white vegetable. Just what the nutritionists recommend.”
I wondered if he was kidding and decided I didn’t really want to know. “Did you get any dessert?”
“Egg custard pie.”
I reached into the bag, found the small Styrofoam container and took out the slice of pie. When I bit into it, I could taste nutmeg and cinnamon. It was the best thing I had ever eaten, sweet and comforting. I had finished it by the time we left the parking lot.
“Would you like my slice, too?” Fred asked.
He was being sarcastic, but I reached back into the bag and found the other small container. By the time we got home, that slice was gone, too.
Six
I didn’t sleep well that night. The pie that had seemed to go down so lightly lay in my stomach like a piece of lead; nightmares plagued me. I finally got up, went into the den and turned on the TV. That didn’t help. The local channel I was watching had a replay of its ten o’clock news at 2 A.M. There was Ed’s body being loaded into the ambulance, and I felt the same tightening in my stomach. I turned the TV off and tried to read. I finally fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa. Fred woke me with a cup of coffee.
“I started to let you sleep,” he said, “but I wanted to know you were all right.”
I took the coffee gratefully and assured him I was, though to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure. I was stiff from sleeping on the sofa, which is really a love seat and too short for comfort, and I had a pounding headache. “I’m fine,” I insisted, refusing to groan and moan like an old woman until Fred was out of the house.
Two aspirin and an hour later, however, I really was better. I decided to tackle the bushel of apples that we had bought over the weekend. My family says my applesauce is the best in the world. I use a recipe I found in Southern Living about twenty years ago, so there are no secret ingredients. In fact, I am suspicious that I am the only one who is willing to peel those apples and stand there stirring the pot. But that’s okay. I really do enjoy the way it smells when it is cooking and the feeling of satisfaction I have when I put the packages into the freezer. It’s one of my fall rituals.
I was standing at the stove stirring the first potful when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Hollowell? It’s Henry.” His voice sounded hesitant. “Is it all right if I call you at home?”
“Where else would you call me, Henry?”
“I guess so. I keep forgetting you aren’t still teaching.”
“I don’t.” I stirred the applesauce. It smelled like Thanksgiving and Christmas. “Are you all right today?”
“I’m fine.” Henry cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hollowell?”
“What, Henry?”
“Do you think we could have lunch somewhere? I think I owe you some explanations.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Henry.”
“I feel like I do.”
I smiled. “My daughter has a T-shirt that says, ‘My Mother Is a Travel Agent for Guilt Trips.’ Maybe you should borrow it.
”
“I think I’ve become my own best agent.” Henry sounded so despondent, it broke my heart. What had happened to the boy with all the promise?
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“At home.”
“Well, I think talking is a good idea and I could use some help peeling apples. Why don’t you come over?” I looked at the mountain of apples. “I think I’ve committed myself to a day in the kitchen.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’ll have to peel apples.”
“I can do that.”
“Great. I’ll see you after a while, then.” I hung up the phone and stirred the applesauce. The morning sun came through the bay window I had had installed in the breakfast nook. We had talked about having that done for years, until finally I called a remodeling company. When Fred came home from work, the whole wall was torn out. “You can take your money with you,” I said, “but you’re not going to take mine, too.” To his ever-lasting credit, he had laughed.
I set the first batch of applesauce on the back of the stove to cool and sat down with another cup of coffee. A squirrel was standing on his head on the bird feeder, trying to get some sunflower seeds; my climbing Peace rose was blooming along the fence. The violence of yesterday seemed as unreal as if it had happened in another world. I wondered how Mary Alice was today and glanced at my watch. Probably still asleep. I crossed my arms on the table and rested my head on them; the sun was warm on my back and the next thing I knew, I was dreaming the doorbell was ringing. When I sat up, both arms were tingling from the weight of my head and there was a small circle of drool on the table.
The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” I yelled, trying to get myself together. I grabbed a paper towel, wet it and swept up the drool. I ran my fingers through my hair. Damn! I must look like a wild woman.
Henry had my rolled-up newspaper in his hand, which again proved that I was not my usual self this morning. Usually the first thing I do after Fred has gone is take our dog, Woofer, for a walk. Then I come back, get the paper and settle down in the breakfast nook for a good read. It may be the best luxury of being retired. Today I had just thrown Woofer a couple of dog biscuits. Bless his heart, he never complains.
“Good morning. Here’s your paper.” Henry looked like he hadn’t slept very well last night, either. I could smell aftershave lotion and his clothes were neatly ironed, but Henry’s eyes were as bloodshot as mine, and there was the unfocused air about him that I had seen on thousands of tired children in my classroom.
“Come in.”
He stepped into the foyer and smiled. “You know, you’re so much smaller than I remembered you.”
“I know. It happens to me all the time. I think maybe all adults seem large to children.”
“I was in high school, though.”
“Just my formidable presence.”
“You really were pretty formidable.”
“Was I? I never intended to be.”
“Oh, formidable in a good way. You expected so much of us that we didn’t want to disappoint you.”
We smiled at each other, and for a moment we were once again teacher and brilliant student with the whole bright future ahead.
“Come on back to the kitchen and I’ll get you some coffee. I wasn’t kidding about those apples. I’m making applesauce.”
Henry followed me down the hall. “It smells wonderful,” he said. “This is the way every house should smell.”
“I agree. I think that’s one reason I enjoy it so much. And it’s like putting nuts up for the winter, too. I like to open the freezer and see all those packages. My parents had me right in the middle of the Depression, and Mary Alice was tiny and they had a terrible time. I think their attitude rubbed off on us. Well, on me, anyway.” I pointed to the breakfast nook, where I noticed gratefully that the table was dry. “Have a seat and I’ll get us some coffee. You want cream and sugar?”
“Both.”
“How about some warm applesauce and toast?”
“Sounds great.”
I busied myself fixing the food. If Henry was like my own two boys, Freddie and Alan, it would take several pieces of toast and a bowl of applesauce. Maybe two bowls. I sneaked a glance at him. He certainly looked peaked, as my mother used to say. Like he needed some good food.
“This is nice,” he said when I set his plate before him, nodding his head to indicate he meant both the view and the food.
“Peaceful,” I agreed. I poured the coffee and sat down. I watched him take his first bite of toast and applesauce, saw the pleased look. “I’ll give you the recipe,” I said.
Henry nodded and chowed down. He gave no sign that I had indirectly referred to his job as a cook. He seemed satisfied to eat and watch the squirrel still trying to get the bird seed. Which suited me. The applesauce was as good as ever.
“More?” I asked as he sopped up the last of the applesauce with the last of the toast.
Henry smiled. “No, thanks. That was wonderful, though.”
“More coffee?”
Henry shook his head. “My wife died, Mrs. Hollowell, from a drug overdose. Or at least a reaction to drugs. Cocaine. The doctors said she had an underlying heart problem we didn’t know about and she died. Atrial fibrillation. Maybe if I had gotten her to the emergency room quick enough. But who knows?” Henry looked into his coffee cup as if he expected an answer.
“Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry.” I was also startled at the suddenness of his confession.
“Her name was Barbara and she was twenty-three. She was a student, too, and we had been married only a few months. I was the one bought the coke and brought it home, even talked her into trying it.” Henry twisted his coffee cup around and around.
“You were a user, then?”
“I wasn’t an addict, if that’s what you mean. Luckily. I was a recreational user. A stupid recreational user. In time things might have changed, though. I’d gotten to the point I enjoyed it more and more.” Henry shook his head. “Stupid.”
His coffee cup was in danger of sailing off the table. “Let me get you some more coffee,” I said, rescuing it. Henry rubbed his hands together as if he hadn’t noticed the cup was gone.
“They arrested me for manslaughter.”
“But how could they do that? For not getting her to the hospital?”
“I didn’t even know anything was wrong with her. I was in the bedroom, high as a kite, trying to write. Can you imagine?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of Faulkner and Fitzgerald.
“What they said was that I had furnished the lethal drug.”
“But you didn’t make her take it.”
“Not physically. They couldn’t make the manslaughter charge hold up. But the charge of buying and selling drugs did. A couple of times I’d let the guy next door have some coke. They found out.”
“Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“There’s a mandatory one-year sentence.”
“You went to prison?” I gasped.
“Well, I’d never been in any trouble before, so they put me into a program that’s like a halfway house. You do community work and they even have some counseling for you. I ended up working in a homeless shelter. That’s where I learned how to cook.”
I put the coffee cup in front of him.
“I’ve got a record, but I got off easy. I could even have gone back to school if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t have the heart. I kept thinking Barbara was going to walk around every corner, or I’d see some girl with hair the color of hers and I’d forget for just a second what I’d done. That she was gone.”
Henry picked up his cup and looked me straight in the eye. “That was when I came back to Alabama. My father died when I was a child and my mother remarried and moved to Florida. She’s dead, too, now. But Alabama’s home, and I figured this was the place to get my life together again.” He sipped the coffee. “Things like yesterday don’t help, though.”
“No,” I agreed, stil
l trying to absorb all he had told me.
“I don’t know anything about Ed’s murder, Mrs. Hollowell.”
“I know you don’t, Henry.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes.
“I was planning to call you when I got my act together, to say thank you.”
“To thank me? For what?”
“I was the only one at Iowa who always knew when to use ‘lie’ and ‘lay.’” His ironic smile was sadder than it should have been.
“Oh, Henry.” I smiled, but I felt tears burning my eyes. “Let’s peel apples.”
I spread newspaper on the table for the peelings and Henry pulled the bushel basket over so each of us could reach it.
“How did you end up at the Skoot ’n’ Boot?” I asked, settling down with a paring knife and a big Rome apple.
“Through the junior college. They have a great food preparation and restaurant program, you know, and I knew I wasn’t going to make a living writing. I hadn’t even finished the course when Ed hired me. He needed a cook, not a chef. But I’m still in the class. I’ll graduate this semester. And you know what?” Henry’s face showed some real animation for the first time. “I really like it. I’m good at it, and I figure I can always get a job as a chef. In fact, one of the country clubs is already interested in me.”
“That’s great.”
“I won’t give up my writing, though.”
“Good. How about a very literate cookbook?”
“Why not?” Henry pared his second apple expertly and held it up, gazing at it as if it were a crystal ball. “You know, I can’t believe Ed was murdered like that. I keep thinking tonight’s pizza night at the Skoot and I need to get there early to see if we need extra crust. I make it ahead and put it in the freezer, but if we’ve had a lot of pizza orders during the week, I’ll need to make some more. But I guess it’ll be a while before we have pizza night, or anything else out there. Somebody really hated that old boy, didn’t they?”
“Did the sheriff seem to have any ideas?”
“If he did, he didn’t share them with me. He ran a background check on me and asked me who some of the regular customers were and if I had seen Ed arguing with anybody.”
