All We Had (12 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Loss

M
y mother bolted upright. “What was that?” She had fallen asleep in her lounge chair.

“McDonald's just got off the power grid,” I said.

Every midnight when they closed, their lights went out, and a loud
zap!
left a line of french-fry-smelling smoke drifting in the air.

“Oh, thank God,” my mother breathed with a hand across her heart. “It scared me.” Relieved, she lay back down. Then she found her half-finished glass of wine on the ground next to her and took a sip.

“What were we talking about again?” she asked. But neither one of us could remember.

We sighed and looked up.

“It's so quiet,” she said.

It was creepy how still that summer had become. Some days downtown was so empty you could hear bits of gravel skip along the curb when the breeze kicked up. That night, the day's traffic had muffled to a barely discernible hum. Even Mother Nature was mute—no warbles or peeps or rustling in the leaves.

The one thing we always heard was the Hansons' walking sprinkler. It plodded back and forth across their front lawn at a slow and steady pace throughout the day and night. Hank oiled it every week and Dotty fostered it like a mother; if it ever got stuck, she'd nudge it with her walker and set it moving in the right direction. But one evening the sprinkler strayed and Dotty accidentally ran it over on the street.

They had six similar ones gathering dust on a shelf in their store, but they never replaced it. Within a week their lawn was dead, every green shred of it gone.

In the silence of the night, I thought I heard a noise. I turned around.

“The Hansons' light is on,” I said.

“Maybe they're awake.”

“They go to bed at eight o'clock.”

“Maybe there's something really good on TV.”

“They don't have a TV,” I said.

My mother fished a gnat out of her wineglass and took another gulp. A tree creaked and a chill tickled the air.

“I'm going to peek in their window,” I said.

“You can't do that, she'll think you're a thief and beat you with her walker.”

She had a point, so I sat back down. Dotty was a maniac with that walker. Half the town had been bruised by it.

Nick at Night had been running a
Love Boat
marathon all week and when my mother realized we were missing it, we went inside. She had always dreamed of taking a cruise, so this show was one of her favorites. But I couldn't focus.

“What if they're dead?” I said.

“For Chrissake, Ruthie. All right, stay here.”

She flung the sheet off and bolted out of bed. The back door slammed shut. I got up and watched her through the window. With her hands tucked under her chin, she tiptoed next door like a rabbit. She stood under the Hansons' window and pricked up an ear to listen, then tiptoed back.

“I hear snoring. Are you happy? My theory,” she continued when we got back into bed, “is that they fell asleep with the light on in those two overstuffed chairs they have. And Hank's doesn't have a high back so his head has kind of fallen up against it like this.” She propped herself up on her elbows and flung her head back with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Then she flopped back down on the bed. “And the angle of his head and neck has forced his mouth wide open, causing his snoring. That's it. I've figured it out. I'm going to sleep.” She reached over the side of the bed, pulled her bag up, and started riffling through it. Apparently it was lipstick time again. When she was done, she chucked it into her purse and let the bag slide to the floor.

I shut the TV off and the blue-green light faded. My mother slipped down under the sheet next to me. A breeze came in through the window and billowed the venetian blind with a soft rattle. The moonlight tumbled over us in stripes. I wrapped my arm around my mother and we spooned together like always.

An hour later, I woke up hearing music. A love song wafted through the air.
“My funny valentine, sweet comic valentine. You're my favorite work of art.”
Unmistakably Ella Fitzgerald.

At first it was hard to tell where it was coming from. But when I got out of bed and looked next door, I could see them in their window—Dotty and Hank in the middle of their living room, dancing. The warm light above made their faces glow. Holding
on to each other, they rocked and moved across the floor like young lovers. It looked easier for them to dance together than it was for either one to walk alone.

When the song was over, their dancing stopped. A moment later, their lights went out.

In her daisy-print dress and wide-brimmed yellow hat, Dotty stepped out first. It was ten the next morning. The two of them shuffled to their car, folded Hank's walker, and placed it in the back. Before Dotty walked around and put her own walker in the car, she straightened out his tie, smoothed a wrinkle on his shoulder, and helped him into the passenger's seat. When she drove off, the purr of their Oldsmobile lingered in the street until they disappeared around the bend.

“You see,” my mother said behind me. “They're fine.”

The heat in late summer was sharp and searing. The sunlight deadened every color and the lack of rain killed off several trees.

But that afternoon, the sky tore open, the rain poured down in steely sheets, and the wind pummeled the earth in violent gusts.

Two days went by. Our basement flooded. The electricity went out. Fat River swelled and the streets filled with water. Every groove in the earth spilled over. A low desperate groan belched across the town when the roof of the old mill building crumbled.

On the third day, the downpours stopped. The sky slowly brightened. A meager rainbow tried to arch across the street,
but a dagger of sunlight sizzled up its spine and—
z
ap
!
—just like that, it was gone.

We opened our door and looked out. The thrum of water was everywhere. It trickled down gutters, swirled down pipes, and dripped off branches. A river gushed along the street. Shiny bits of garbage caught the light and glinted in the water. Bigger things bobbed about. I counted two umbrellas, a cordless phone, two baseball caps. A flip-flop and a pair of mangled glasses had landed on our front steps. Someone's lawn chair was angled in the bush in front of Patti's.

Patti opened her front door and waved across the rushing water. Looking out her picture window, Miss Frankfurt cradled Pancake to her cheek. But next door, the Hansons' house was quiet. Their shades were drawn. No sign of life was seen or heard so we sloshed across the way. When we rang the doorbell, the only sound it mustered was a soggy burp, so we knocked. And knocked again until we were pounding and screaming at the door.

There was a clatter across the street. In his bright orange chest-high waders, Roger stepped out of his door with his chainsaw, another Walmart purchase, in one hand. He raised the other to shield his eyes and took a moment to look around.

Patti pointed him in our direction and, as if he wore a cape, he plunged down off their steps and waded through the street.

“Stand back!” he shouted when he got to us. “I've been dying to use this.” And he fired up the engine. With four gritty throttles, he cut a square hole through their door and stepped through. We waited on the Hansons' dead and flooded lawn.

“Every kid should have a bike,” Hank had said that summer
when he had mine upside down in the back of his store. By that time, my bike had become more like a Batmobile. Dotty insisted that Hank give me new brakes, side mirrors, a headlight, and a taillight that blinked when I turned. Every Saturday he greased my gears so that when I pedaled uphill it was easy. And he made sure my tires were always pumped just right so that if I ever hit a bump, I wouldn't feel it.

The only time Hank talked was when his hands were busy. It was as if the act of moving them unlocked a secret door. He quoted poetry from people I'd never heard of, and he knew every phrase that Jesus ever uttered. And every time he started talking, without fail, Dotty would shuffle down the aisle. “Don't be yakking her ear off, Hank! For Chrissake, she's probably hungry!” And she'd raise and rattle a Tupperware container full of cookies she'd baked the night before.

Their grand reopening had generated only a temporary bump in sales. For a while they ran a TV ad, and in July they'd hired a mascot. A guy dressed up as a hammer stood out in front of the store and waved the American flag. But three more departments at the plastic tubing company had moved to China and business everywhere had slowed. And they were tired, I could tell. Every time I saw them, they seemed a little weaker.

When Roger appeared again in the opening of the door, his face was white.

“God's grace,” Hank said to me that last time I saw him, “is in the wind that whips around you when you're coasting. Every kid deserves to have that feeling.”

I later learned that the day I saw them leave their house, they'd gone to church, after years of not going, and renewed their wed
ding vows. When they came home they shared an apple and lay down together fully clothed, as if to take a nap.

Peppered with dead flies, the apple core was on the floor beside their bed. They had peeled it and soaked it overnight in poison.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Redemption

T
he flood left an ashen pallor. The stench of waste ripened in the sun. A lump settled in my throat. Life seemed to be falling apart. Fewer people were eating out and my mother's tips began to dwindle.

But for a while, after the Hansons died, a wistfulness enshrouded the town. Hushed tones and sweet words laced every conversation. Arlene took her husband back even though she'd kicked him out again just two weeks before. My mother and I hugged every time we parted and people who hadn't been to Tiny's in months came back to share a meal.

Then one day, on my mother's day off, a 1970 Lincoln Continental pulled into the parking lot. When the restaurant door swung open and Miss Frankfurt stepped inside, mouths dropped. Forks hit plates, coffee mugs lowered. The handful of customers, all of them former students, looked at her and held their breath as if anticipating a scolding.

Miss Frankfurt had not been to Tiny's in over fifteen years.
But here she was standing in the doorway clutching a quilted hen-shaped purse. Her swollen ankles bulged around her shoes. She wore a gray skirt suit with a mauve scarf, just a touch of sensible color. Her hair was twirled into a neat bun and her glasses were the same vintage as her car. They had upside-down arms and the lenses were huge. Her mouth turned down and bracketed the ball of her chin. Her lower lip protruded. She sucked it in and out as she looked around for a seat.

When I saw her across the street working in her garden, she seemed soft and kind, but up close, she terrified me. In class I'd look around and there she'd be standing in the back like a ghost. Her arms crossed at her ample bosom, she'd watch the teacher's every move.

She scooted into the nearest booth, dragging her purse along the table. When she was squarely in the center, she let her heft drop. Pushing up on her hair, she gathered herself from the ­effort. She unzipped the hen purse and pulled out a smaller identical change purse and set it on the table. Then she settled the larger hen on the seat next to her.

Peter Pam's real name was Peter Montgomery. Of all Miss Frankfurt's former students, Peter had been her most promising. She had no children of her own and she'd pinned her hopes on him, certain he'd be the one to leave this town and make her proud.

But he never moved away or went to college. Peter Montgomery was a natural-born ham. There wasn't a single thing not to like about him and nobody cared that he wore a dress. But Miss Frankfurt was Catholic. She called it sinful, witless, and foolish and swore she'd never speak to him again.

He stood in front of the counter trembling. His mouth hung open, a half-empty coffeepot shaking in his hand.

Miss Frankfurt pulled her glasses down her nose and searched the room. When she saw him, her eyes stopped. A moment passed between them.

“Well,” she finally said, “don't just stand there like a dimwit. For God's sake, pour me a cup of coffee.”

Peter managed to pour her coffee without spilling it and bring her an English muffin without dropping it. Then he burst through the kitchen doors and nearly fainted. “I can't breathe!” he choked, doubling over. He reached for the upside-down plastic bucket inside the door. Arlene grabbed his arm and eased him down onto it before he fell. She fanned him for a while with a menu.

And I stood watch. Through the round window in the kitchen door I saw Miss Frankfurt drink her coffee. She spread orange marmalade on her muffin so intently she didn't seem to notice that everyone was watching her.

“She's done,” I reported when she'd finished her last bite.

“Oh, God,” Peter moaned.

“Okay, that's enough of this, I've had it,” Arlene said, chucking the menu down on the counter. “Get up,” she chided, “and quit being a baby.” She grabbed Peter's elbow and pulled him up.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Listen up,” she said as if she were his coach. “You are a beautiful person, do you hear me?” Arlene grazed her hand over his forehead. “And God made you, same as her. Now I want you to go out there and stand tall. I want you to look down that big
beautiful nose of yours and hand her the check as if she was a speck of dust to you.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter said apprehensively. “I think I can do it.”

“Of course you can.” Arlene clocked him on the shoulder, annoyed.

“Ruthie,” she snapped. Without taking her eyes off Peter she reached behind her where I stood ready with the check. She took it and placed it in Peter's hand.

“Now go!” Arlene said, shoving him out the door.

Arlene and I each took a window. Peter hadn't moved. He stood frozen just outside the door. Arlene shouldered it into him, nudging him forward. He finally started, but just before he reached her table, his knees buckled and he had to steady himself on the edge of it.

“Oh, God,” Arlene grumbled.

Peter went to hand Miss Frankfurt the check but his arm shook and the check trembled. Aggravated, Miss Frankfurt reached up and snatched it right out of the air.

A moment passed.

Peter quaked.

You could hear a pin drop. Arlene and I stepped out through the kitchen door. I looked around. The customers had all stopped midaction. They held their breath, waiting to hear Miss Frankfurt explode. But nothing happened. She opened her change purse and handed Peter a bill. He cowered, hesitating.

“For God's sake, take the money,” Miss Frankfurt snapped, and waved it in his face.

He inched the bill from her hand, careful not to upset her more, then slowly turned to go.

Miss Frankfurt scooted out to the edge of the booth, dropped her head, and lifted herself up with effort.

“Mr. Montgomery,” she called when she saw him tiptoeing away from her.

His shoulders dropped, resigned.

“Look at me when I speak to you.”

He sheepishly turned around.

The waning afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. Miss Frankfurt lowered her glasses. The creases on her upper lip deepened as she pinched her mouth. Her gaze bore down on him and the unadorned silver crucifix around her neck caught the light. A long tense moment passed.

“I have prayed on it now for many years. The other day, the good Lord finally spoke. ‘Frankfurt,' he said to me, ‘stop fussing over foolishness. It's not what you wear or who you are with, it's what's in your soul that matters.' ”

Peter stood in disbelief. He turned on his heels and looked at us. Wide-eyed, he clutched himself as if to say,
Did you just hear that?
He turned back to her. I could feel his heart swell. He was just about to throw his arms around her when she held a hand up to stop him.

“Let's not get carried away now,” she said.

“No, no, of course not,” Peter said, retreating quickly.

She walked by him, put her hand on the door to push it open, but then stopped. She turned around again.

“I will agree with you on one thing, though.” She looked him up and down. “You look much better in a dress.” Something at his neck caught her gaze. Her expression hardened. “And fix your collar, would you?” She made a gesture at her neck. “It's all folded in.” I hadn't noticed, but it was.

When Miss Frankfurt drove out of the parking lot, an empty Walmart bag spun in her wake. Her tires left a streak of dust, and—
poo
f
!
—
just
like that, she set the world straight again. Three days later a new pair of mules arrived and Peter Pam was back.