Half Finished

by Lauraine Snelling

  “How many tables can you set up back there?” Roxie asked.

  “Possibly two eight-footers,” Anne replied. “I’m warming up to this idea too. You put together a poster and we can tack it up on the bulletin board. Start with an organizational meeting?” Anne pushed her chair back when the bell tinkled over the door. “I’d say the sooner the better.”

  “Hold the first meeting here? See how many we get?”

  “Sure. We can seat more without the tables.” Anne hustled off.

  While Anne greeted the new customer and took her order, MJ dug her calendar out of her always-present belt bag. “I’ll bet Maureen would love for us to meet at the yarn shop too. She has a lot more space.”

  “All depends on how many people show up,” Roxie replied. “I’ll go home and do a mockup on the laptop. I’d say get started meeting in May, on a Monday night at seven.” She pointed to Wednesday, April twenty-sixth. “At this organizational meeting we can vote on day and time, but locking in one day each month is easier to remember. That gives us two weeks.”

  “Okay, April twenty-sixth, seven p.m., here at Annie’s. You might add, bring a friend. I’ll try to bring Daryl.”

  “Headline needs to be, YOU GOT ANY UFOS AT YOUR HOUSE? in a big font. JOIN US… and the time, place, etc. You want your phone number or mine?”

  “Or both?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll find a graphic or two.”

  They paid their checks, thanked Anne for the dog treats she’d baked in-house, waved at another table of women, and headed for the door, only to veer around as if joined at the hips and stop to talk to the other two.

  “What are you cooking up now?” Paula asked.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “I know you two. You have that look about you.” Paula nudged the other woman. “You know, Gail?”

  The greetings taken care of, Roxie jumped in. “We have the best idea.”

  “See, I told you.”

  As Roxie described their idea, MJ was getting more and more pumped herself. “And so we are making a flyer to put around as an invite.”

  “UFO party.” Paula looked dubious.

  “Well, not a party but a group. You know how much more fun doing things together is.”

  Paula shrugged. “I do my knitting or crocheting in front of the TV when George is watching sports, so that technically, I am with him.”

  “Me too. Knitting bag is right by my chair, but…” Roxie shook her head, making one curl flop over her forehead. “So put April twenty-sixth on your calendar. We’re meeting right here.” She pointed to the social room. “You can bring something to work on if you want, but this is for organizational purposes.”

  Both women nodded. “I will be there. If I got my storage spaces cleared, I would near to faint.”

  Gail grinned. “Your hubby might too.”

  “I know, Mr. Organized.”

  MJ and Roxie waved good-bye and headed for the door again. Their furry-faced friends sat up immediately, tails wagging.

  “Yes, we’re going home.” Both dogs got to their feet, whimpering and dancing, to head out. They nosed for their doggy treats, well versed in the drill, and crunched away, tails wagging all the while.

  While on the way there, they’d checked out every smell, so now they pulled against their leads, heading for home.

  “I’ll call Amalia as soon as I get in. Looper, slower.” MJ yanked.

  “You could have used your cell.”

  “I know, but it and I are on a sabbatical. I left it home for that very reason.”

  “But what if Daryl tried to call?” Roxie snorted.

  “Then he might have heard it ringing if he was in the kitchen. I hate being tied to that thing.”

  “My friend,” Roxie said with exaggerated patience, “you’ve got to come into this century. Tech is here to stay and will only grow.” They waited for the light, then strode across.

  “We should have gone the other way to get our mile and a half in.”

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t, so sue me. Make sure your computer is turned on, because as soon as I get a rough draft, I’ll fire it over to you. You can edit it on the screen or print it out.”

  MJ rolled her eyes. Roxie was determined to make her use the computer. She knew how but she and it had a love-hate relationship. When it worked right, it was great. When it didn’t, she threatened it with a baseball bat. One never knew what kind of mood the thing was in.

  Roxie dragged on Sir Charles’s leash. “We can each take a handful later this afternoon and post them in the places we discussed. Make sure you have pushpins along.”

  “You’ll have it done by then?”

  “MJ, this isn’t a book we’re writing, but a one-sheet poster. I think I’ll make it eleven by fourteen. Bigger will attract more attention. I’ll make it plenty bright.”

  “I need another latte.”

  Chapter Two

  Looks pretty good.” Amalia nodded, setting the blue ribbon on her straw hat to bobbing. Leave it to Roxie and MJ to come up with an idea like this. UFO group. Not that she had so many UFOs since she’d sold her home and moved into the senior apartments in what used to be the Tilden School. The school her children had attended. Seemed strange at times for it to be housing seniors now. But she was plenty comfortable there. Besides, quite a few of her friends lived there now too.

  She turned to a woman she knew from church who had also stopped to read the poster on the library’s bulletin board. “You have any unfinished projects?”

  “Do birds eat seeds? I do have a quilter friend, however, who has none. A big zero. She doesn’t even have a stash. Uses her fabrics up and then buys new for the next quilt. You’d think that would be illegal, you know.”

  “Or she’s lying.”

  “Now, Amalia…”

  “You going?”

  “I think so, got to check my calendar. You?”

  Amalia nodded again. “Oh, yeah, MJ and Roxie’d have my head if I didn’t show up. Besides, maybe Gary will have his ginger cookies there. Tried to talk him out of the recipe but he wouldn’t budge. Says he has a secret ingredient.”

  “Well, I better get my books and head on home. My husband gave me a list to pick up for him too. See you there.”

  Amalia watched her friend as she disappeared in the stacks. She sure wasn’t walking as well since that minor stroke she had. Pity. Just the thought caused a thank-you to raise heavenward that she could still ride her bike and walk as far as she needed to. A hip replacement had freed her from the worst pain anyway. She went on over to the desk to pick up the two books she had put on order, checked them out, waved to another friend sitting over by the window reading, and headed out to where she had parked her blue three-wheeled bike with both front and rear baskets. This was her main mode of transportation, other than public, since she’d moved smack-dab in the middle of Fond du Lac. Much easier than when she’d lived a couple of miles out in the country.

  Digging her cell phone out of her rear jeans pocket, she punched Roxie’s number. “Looks good,” she said after the usual greetings. “Where all did you post them?” She nodded as Roxie caught her up. “You got any more? I’ll put one up at the apartments. No, on my way home right now. I’ll swing by and pick it up.”

  “You got time for tea?” Roxie asked at the door.

  “Can I take a rain check? Made a big pot of chicken soup and need to deliver it to a couple of places. That flu has been hard on our residents. You hear that old Mrs. Goldson passed away from it a couple of days ago? Funeral is next week.”

  Roxie frowned in thought. “She was in her nineties, right?”

  “Ninety-three to be exact. Seemed healthy as a horse.” Amalia took the poster. “If you’ve got enough, why don’t you give me another? I’ll put up one at the garden store too. Got to stop there anyway.”

  “I can always print more. Thanks. See you at Annie’s for coffee tomorrow morning? Usual time?”

  Amalia nodded. “You back to r
egular walking?”

  “Working on it.”

  Amalia leaned over to scratch Sir Charles behind his ears. “Such a good dog. Okay, see you in the a.m.”

  After posting one flyer at the garden store, she pedaled on home, parked her bike in the rack, and gathered up her packages. She pushpinned the poster up on the bulletin board in the entrance. Someone must have recently removed all the out-of-date ones since there was room for this one. She noticed a card about a cat needing a home. Darn, Ima Goldson’s old cat, Jehoshaphat, needed a home. Got to think on that, she said to herself. She had assumed Ima’s daughter would take the grumpy critter home to her house. For some strange reason, Jehoshaphat liked Amalia, one of the few people he tolerated, in fact. But did she want to be tied down again? Not that she planned on being gone for any length of time, but…

  The fragrance of chicken soup greeted her as she opened her door. Which reminded her why she was hesitant about taking in Jehoshaphat. The odor of a litter box. All the ads claimed the newfangled ones had no odor, but while her sight wasn’t as good as it used to be, her sense of smell made up for it. Hauling cat litter around on her bike might cause a bit of a problem. Of course, with Amazon, she could have both litter and cat food delivered right to her door. Was she trying to talk herself into or out of being owned by a cat?

  The Crock-Pot fragranced the house anyway. She dug out plastic containers, most of which had had an earlier life containing cottage cheese or sour cream. Her Norwegian mother referred to them as Norwegian Tupperware. She had most assuredly passed on her frugal ways. This way no recipients felt obligated to return the containers. Once the four were filled, she had enough left for only two or three meals for herself. Perfect. She sealed them, then wrote instructions on the lid of the one for old Mr. Green. Usually she brought his down on a tray, ready to eat instantly. But with instructions, he could manage his microwave. She sliced and buttered the remainder of her sourdough-four-ingredient-bread-with-no-kneading, and slid each slice into a sandwich bag. Into two of the bags she added a recipe card with instructions on how to make the bread. Clara still liked to bake bread and Bess would manage this easy one. No kneading saved joints.

  She tapped once on Green’s door and entered just as he invited her in. “Brought you chicken soup even though you’re not fighting the flu.”

  “Bless you, I was trying to figure what to have tonight. Just put it in the refrigerator, please. I can warm it in the container?”

  “You can, but pouring it into a bowl with one of your small plates on top is safer.”

  “Okay. Any chance you can stay to visit a bit?”

  “Need to deliver three others, two in bed.”

  He nodded. “Better see to them first. Thank you. If you hear any good news, I could sure do with some.” He waved at the TV. “Not any more gloom and doom. You hear there was another shooting in a school? North Carolina this time. Sure hope they catch the ba— Ah, the shooter.”

  “What is this country coming to?” Amalia headed for the door. “You know to call me if you need anything.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go about your angel-of-mercy assignation.”

  “By the way,” Amalia added, “I got a new book called The Joys of Bird-Watching. You might like it when I’m done.”

  “Print or ebook?”

  “Print. Call if you need me.” She waved to him and headed for the elevator. Earlier in the day she would have taken the stairs. She stopped at 216 and tapped on the door as she pushed it open.

  “Brought you some chicken soup. Supposed to be good against colds and flu. You want to eat now or later?”

  “Thanks,” came a wavery voice from the bedroom. “I don’t feel much like eating so just put it in the refrigerator.”

  Amalia shook her head and dug the tray out of the cookie sheet slot in the woman’s kitchen. “You’re eating now.”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Agatha June Spencer, you are going to eat now if I have to feed you myself. You want to end up back in the hospital?” She poured the soup in a bowl, topped it with a plate, and turned the microwave to two minutes. While the soup heated, she set up the tray. “What have you had to drink today?”

  “I finished the pitcher of water you left.” The voice was sounding stronger. How much was true flu, and how much was sheer depression? Agatha’s son had died two months earlier and she’d been struck down by the grief, taking away all her will to live. Amalia finished setting up the tray and carried it into the bedroom.

  “Good old remedy for what ails you, chicken soup and homemade bread. You want coffee, tea, or juice to go with this?”

  “None, thank you.”

  “Okay, tea it will be. And I’ll refill the pitcher. Good for you on your drinking today. Now, which will it be, sitting up in bed, the tray on your lap, or I’ll help you move into that chair and set up the TV tray?”

  “Amalia, you are not listening to me, I just do not feel like eating.”

  “Got it. We’ll get you sitting up and I will feed you.”

  Agatha shook her head. “Can’t you tell I just want to be left alone?”

  “I know.” While she talked, Amalia set the tray on the chair by the bed, pulled back the covers, and helped lift Agatha to sitting up, at the same time stuffing pillows behind her. She unfolded the bib she’d laid on the tray and snapped it around the neck that was looking more turkey-like every day. “You are not eating enough to keep a bird alive.”

  “You know birds can eat twice their weight in food every day.”

  “Well, at least your mind is working.” She set the tray across her patient’s lap and dipped a spoonful of soup. Agatha rolled her eyes, but she opened her mouth and swallowed.

  The eyes opened. “That is good.”

  “I know, you think I’d bring you something not good?” She held out another spoonful. Lord, please bring life and joy back to this woman. She is too young to give up yet. Granted she was in her mid-seventies, but until Andrew died and this bug attacked her, she’d been doing well. One of the group, you might say.

  “I give up.” She reached for the spoon. Part of the first spoonful hit the bib but she took a deep breath and tried again. This time her hand held more firmly.

  “Try some of the bread, I think you’ll like it. Come to think of it, dipped in soup might make it even better.”

  By the time the bread was gone, so was the soup. The pitcher was filled with water again, and Amalia brought in a cup of mint tea. “You didn’t specify so this is what you get. The mint might help clear your head.” She smiled at Agatha. “Now you drink this while I take Lily’s soup to her, and I’ll stop by on my way back. Did that home helper come today?”

  “Was she supposed to?”

  “Yes, to get you showered and change your bed, and she should have fed you lunch.”

  “No, another no-show.”

  “Did someone knock?”

  Agatha wrinkled her forehead. “Perhaps. I don’t remember.”

  “But you didn’t tell her to come in?” I better talk with those folks again. “The door wasn’t locked?”

  Shaking her head, Agatha sipped her tea. “I told them not to send her.”

  “I see. Did she call?”

  Agatha did not look up again but she nodded.

  “If someone can come tomorrow, I will tell them to stop at my place and I will bring her up and get her going.” She sniffed. “It’s beginning to smell like a sick room in here. Where are your air fresheners?”

  “In the pantry.”

  “I’ll be back in a while. You want the TV on?”

  “No.”

  “Enjoy your tea.” Amalia strode to the door, picked up her bag, and headed back out in the hall. One more to go.

  Lord, am I doing what is best here? Agatha might need nursing care. When did she last see the doctor? Or did the visiting nurse come see her? All alone, Agatha was all alone.

  She tapped on the door and pushed it open. “Supper is here.” She stopped and grinne
d. “Well, look at you, up and sitting in the chair. How wonderful! And you used your walker.”

  Lily slapped a hand at the walker beside her. “When did that thing get so heavy? Felt like I’d walked half a mile just from the bed to here.”

  “Ah, but you did it, that’s what counts. Now, can you eat in the chair, or do you need to go back to bed first?”

  “I am so sick of that bed.” She sent a glare at the bedroom. “Something sure smells good.”

  “Just call me the soup lady. Put this in the Crock-Pot this morning and the fragrance of chicken soup made it all the way into the hall before I got back.” She went through the same procedure as at Agatha’s and, while the soup heated, pulled the tray over in front of the chair. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Too late in the day for coffee, so it better be tea.”

  “No decaf?”

  “Nope. The cupboard is a’gettin’ bare. Give me the herb tea, please.”

  Amalia smiled. “If you give me a list, I could pick up a few things tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, but it might be easier if I call the grocery and have it delivered.”

  “That place doubles their prices all because of their ‘free’ delivery. I’m sure MJ would shop for you. I’ll write the list while you eat.” Amalia set the plate with soup bowl and bread on the tray and pushed it up to the chair.

  Lily bowed her head for grace and inhaled after her silent amen. “That smells like a bit of heaven in a bowl.”

  “Can you manage?”

  “Slow but sure. Like that old turtle we talked about.” Even though her hand shook, she got the spoon to her mouth and savored the flavor.

  “Agatha dipped her bread in her soup. Might be easier. Oh, by the way, I brought the recipe along for when you are feeling better.”

  “Not easy to knead bread anymore.” She flinched when trying to turn her wrist. “Blasted old Arthur. Never did like that name.”

  “I know. Arthur-itis wants to take up with all of us. Equal opportunity disease.”

  “That sure be the truth.” She took another long sip.