Authors: Patricia Gaffney
I was getting excited myself—maybe he should give
me
the job. The Other School has courses like “Computers Don’t Byte,” “Your Backyard Vineyard,” “A Closer Look at Van Gogh.” They have them on weeknights in places like the Unitarian Church or the Elks Club, anyplace there’s an
empty room and a proprietor who’ll let Brian borrow it. Carrie took a course in tole painting last summer; Birdie and I took one called “The Joys of Grandparenting.” (George wouldn’t go with me, of course, but it’s just as well, because frankly that one was a boondoggle.) The fees are cheap, and the teachers get paid based on how many students enroll in their classes. I imagine overhead’s practically nothing. My guess is, in a small, Clayborne-type way, Brian Wright’s making a killing.
“It’s still a risky business, I won’t kid you.” He pushed back from the table, wiped his mouth with his napkin, balled it up, and set it beside his plate.
So big
. His shoulders were so broad, I couldn’t see the back of his chair. “I couldn’t withstand a recession yet, for example. I mean, anything can happen. I’ll be honest—anybody I hired would be taking the same chance I’m taking.”
Well, I certainly admired his candor. Personally, I would love a job like that, all the riskiness and newness, everything not completely planned out yet. I glanced at Carrie, who was pressing her fingertips together and looking thoughtful.
“May I be excused, please?”
Poor Ruth, she was bored to tears. “Of course,” I started to say, “why don’t you and your grandfather go watch TV.” While I start the dishes, and Carrie and Brian have a little private chat—was my thought. But before I could finish, Brian stood up and said he hated to go but he had an early day tomorrow, dinner was wonderful, thanks so much, etc., etc., good-bye.
People—mostly Birdie; sometimes Carrie—say I have no tact. This is not true. I happen to believe there’s a time for tact and a time for action, and here was a perfect example. Tact was what got this business meeting started, and action would see it through to the end.
“’Bye, Brian, I’m so glad you could come, it was lovely seeing you. Carrie, could you get Brian’s coat? Ruth honey, you go watch your program. George, can you help me in the kitchen?”
There. Everybody went where they were supposed to go. Except for George, who kept going, out the back door and into the yard to smoke his pipe. I didn’t spy on them, but before I closed the kitchen door I saw Carrie and Brian huddled in the foyer, talking in earnest voices. He was leaning forward, she was leaning back.
“Why didn’t you just tell me, Mama? It would’ve been nice to know he was coming, that’s all.”
“I don’t see why, and this way you didn’t have to worry. Think of it as a stress-free job interview. Wasn’t that a lot nicer than going down to his office and answering questions?”
“But what if he didn’t want to interview me? You made it impossible for him
not
to.”
“No, no, he did want to, I figured that out in the bank. What you don’t understand is that this all started with Brian, not me.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, so? What did he say? Are you going to take it?”
Carrie straightened up from the dishwasher, swatting her hair back over her shoulder. “We both said we’d think it over.”
“Oh. But he did offer it to you, the job, formally?”
“Well, I guess. Sort of. He told me more about what I’d do.”
“What would you do?”
“Well, write all the copy for the spring semester’s course brochure, that sounds like the main thing. Help him recruit new sponsors and advertisers. Write up ads and figure out new places to put them. ‘Editorial and administration,’ he said.”
“My goodness, that sounds exciting.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, my, yes. You’ll be in charge of everything, sounds like. What will
he
do?”
She smiled, loosening up, getting over her huff. “I guess it
might be okay. It doesn’t sound too hard, nothing I probably couldn’t learn.”
“Are you kidding? He’s lucky to get you. Did you talk about money?”
“No. Oh—he said he was glad to know I’m good with computers. Mama, what in the world did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Just that the last time you worked, which was in Chicago three years ago, you had a very important administrative position in a busy high-tech office.”
“I was a part-time assistant in the math department at Stephen’s college.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Oh, it was good to hear Carrie laugh! Ruth came in while we were still at it. She went to the sink, pushing her mother aside with her hip to get a glass of water. Carrie reached up to push a lock of hair out of her face, but she shrugged away, still drinking. “So are you taking that job, Mom?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. We said we’d talk about it some more.”
“You and Mr.
Wright
.” She set the glass in the sink too hard. She looked disgusted, curling her lip in a very unattractive way.
Carrie frowned. “Don’t you want me to take it?”
“God, Mom, I so don’t care.”
“Well, nothing’s formal yet anyway. He may not even offer it to me.”
“Oh, he’ll offer it to you, don’t worry. I bet you a million dollars.”
“How do you know?”
“Are you kidding? God, it’s so
obvious
. The guy is
hot
for you.”
Carrie stared, then laughed. “Oh, that’s funny. Boy, are you off base.”
“Nuh uhh.”
“Ruthie, what am I going to do with you?”
“Jeez, Mom, are you really that dense?”
I didn’t care for this conversation. I interrupted it to ask
Ruth, hoping to change her mood, “How’s that boyfriend of yours? The one I met at the bus stop the other day.”
“Mama,” Carrie said.
“I don’t have any boyfriend, Gram.”
“You know,” I said, “Gull, Herring—”
“If you’re speaking of Raven, he is not my boyfriend.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I laughed, hoping she’d join me. “I wanted to say to him, ‘Honey, where’s your calendar, Halloween’s
over
.’”
“
Mama
.”
“
What
?”
It was a cold, nasty day when I met this person, probably forty degrees and spitting rain, but all “Raven” had on was leather pants and a black fishnet top.
Fishnet.
He had white makeup all over his face, and black lipstick on his mouth, the sides curling up in a creepy smile—it gave me the willies. He’d dyed his hair black, you could tell by the inch-long light-brown roots, and he wore it hacked off short on one side and combed over long on the other, long and stringy and absolutely ridiculous, like Michael Jackson’s hair, like Dracula’s. I was dying to hear what he had to say for himself, so I smiled at him and held my arm out the car window until he had to come over. Well, it was like shaking hands with the undead. His black lips moved, so he must’ve said something, but what I could not say. Then he walked backward, into the crowd of kids at the bus stop, and before I knew it he was gone. Like Bela Lugosi turning into a bat.
Ruth said, “I’m watching something on TV,” and started to leave.
“But I’m sure he’s a lovely boy. Hey, how about some ice cream? Want me to bring you some?”
“No, thanks, Gram.”
“We’ve got chocolate
and
vanilla.”
“No, thanks,” she called from the dining room.
I could hear football coming from the TV room. “Make Grampa turn on something you like!”
Carrie shook her head at me.
“What? What did I say? I shouldn’t have said Halloween. Okay, all right, I shouldn’t have—but have you
seen
that boy?”
“He’s actually very nice.”
“Sure. That’s what they said about those two at Columbine.”
She turned her back and started drying the glasses.
I let a little time go by. “Now, listen. I hope you know I’d never want to push you into anything, but—” This time her laugh wasn’t as pleasant to the ears. A snort, it sounded like. I ignored it. “
But
. I’m thinking you should take Brian Wright up on his offer.”
“Oh, God.” Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
“You should, for a lot of reasons. One, it would save you the trouble of looking for something yourself.” Which she’s not in any shape to do anyway; she could hardly leave the house to buy groceries. “Two, it sounds like a nice job, very responsible, with plenty of room in the future for growth. Three, it would get you out of your slump, because you’d have to get out and be with people. Four, Brian would make a great boss. And five, you need the money.”
“You’re right,” she said lifelessly, elbows on the counter, staring at her reflection in the black window. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right.”
“And six,” I said to lighten the mood, “nobody else has offered you a job except Jess Deeping. To build ark animals!”
“Why do you always call him Jess Deeping?”
“What?”
“You always say his last name. You never call him Jess—you never did.”
“Really? I never noticed.” Why was everybody mad at me tonight? “Anyway. I still can’t get over that ark business. Wasn’t that the funniest thing? Even your father had a good laugh. You building ark animals—now I’ve heard everything. What was he going to pay you for that?”
“I don’t know, Mama, we never got that far.”
“I guess not.”
“Jess wouldn’t have paid me anyway. The church would have.”
“The
Arkists
. My Lord, it never ceases to amaze me what people will start up a religion over. Next we’ll have the Sons of Jonah—the Whalists.” Carrie eked out a smile. “I didn’t know you and Jess Deeping—excuse me,
Jess
—were friends again. I was surprised to see him at Stephen’s funeral, in fact.” But not as surprised as I was to see him in Carrie’s
kitchen
. What a jolt that was. I hadn’t been going to bring this subject up at all, and here I was smack in the middle of it.
“Why wouldn’t we be friends again? It’s—I thought Ruth might’ve mentioned him to you.”
“Why would Ruth mention Jess Deeping to me?”
“Because they—well, it started when we ran into him at the hardware store last, I don’t know, last spring sometime.” She finally turned around and leaned back against the counter. “Ruth liked him, and he had a lot of dogs wriggling around in the back of his pickup truck, so of course that cemented the bond. She had to do a paper for school on a local industry, and it was her idea to call Jess up and ask a million questions about dairy farming. And then”—she waved her arm vaguely—“it just, you know—”
“Cow stomachs,” I recalled. “The science fair project.”
“Right, more research. And so—well, anyway, that’s it, end of story. Do these go in here or the dining room?”
“I have to say, I think it’s just a little odd that this is the first time I’m hearing about all this.”
“All what?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t. I really don’t.”
“Okay, never mind. The good glasses go in the mahogany cupboard in the dining room, please, top shelf. Thank you.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds, but it felt like a lot longer. Were we fighting? We used to, years ago, then we quit—Carrie put up a wall. I’d give anything for the closeness we used to have. But it’s gone, and no matter what I do
I can’t get it back. I thought when she moved back to Clayborne after twenty years away, the pattern would change and we’d become friends again, the way we were—when? When she was about Ruth’s age. That was the best time for us. The only time Carrie ever loved me as much as I love her.
What is it I do, I wonder. What’s my fatal flaw? Every mother swears all she wants for her children is happiness, but in my case it’s the truth. I love my daughter more than anyone else on this earth, even more than my granddaughter, but she won’t let me in. She’s like a shadow that moves whenever I move, I can’t touch her. She pulls away, turns away, backs away. Did I raise a cold child? Or is it me? We’re not even close enough to fight anymore.
“Dining room,” Carrie said, and walked out with her hands full of wineglasses.
I
WAS WALKING
home from school by myself because I missed the bus and Caitlin and Jamie, who I usually walk home with as far as Madison when that happens, had already left without me. I passed a store I’ve noticed before but never gone in. What caught my eye this time was a sign in the window that said
TIRED ALL THE TIME?
I’m not, but my mom is. Also sad all the time—maybe they had something for that, too. Under the
TIRED ALL THE TIME
sign was a big pyramid of pill bottles, and another sign that said, “Clean, pure Nature’s Turn Algae, grown wild in the glacier-fed lakes of Ontario, promotes energy, stamina, and mental clarity.” I went inside.
Krystal’s Mother Earth Palace and Natural Healing Salon, the store was called. They could also have called it Heat and Incense, which is what rushed out and hit me in the face before I could get the door closed. It was like walking into a furnace burning perfume logs. I unwrapped my muffler and unbuttoned my coat, nodding to the only other person in the store, a lady moving jars around on a shelf. “Need any help?” she asked over the plinking of dulcimer music. “No, thanks,” I said, “I’m just looking.”
Nature’s Turn Algae cost $16.95 a bottle. Tough luck, Mom. Gram and Grampa gave me a big check for Christmas
, but I still had to be careful about money. Who knew when I’d get more? I went over to the vitamin shelves, which covered two whole walls, thinking maybe some iron pills. Iron, iron…things weren’t alphabetical here like they were at the drugstore. Did Mom have chronic fatigue? That would explain a lot. If so, she needed Fibro Malic or Aqua Flora. Or Protykin, a powerful antioxidant to fight the onslaught of free radicals, which wreak havoc by destroying cells and tissues. Okay, but what exactly is a free radical? I pictured it as this, like, boomerang-shaped sickle slicing through the air, invading you through your pores or your nose, maybe your food. Nobody’s safe. Fibro Malic or not, something’s always going to get you.
Wow, this store had pills for everything. Prostate problems, joint pain, thinning hair, trouble breathing, blotchy skin, hormonal imbalance. I have both of those last two. And I’ve been having a very slow heartbeat lately, sometimes I can’t find my pulse at all. These easy-to-swallow soft gels could help; revolutionary studies revealed the amazing cardio-protectant effect of tocotrienols. Some products had typewritten testimonials taped to the shelf under them. I paused at one for a miraculous intestinal cleaner. Some guy, Clifford C. of Spaulding, VA, wrote, “I used it every day for a month, and I was amazed at how all the poisons and decaying matter just kept coming out.” Message to Cliff:
Yuck
.
The incense smell was nice once you got used to it, a sort of lemon and cinnamon combination. It was coming from a pot on top of a woodstove at the back of the store. A bookshelf and a couple of soft, ratty-looking chairs closed the area off and made it look cozy, like somebody’s very small living room. The books were what you’d expect, New Age stuff, herbal remedies, spiritual healing, 12-step programs. I ran my finger along the spines and pulled out
Live Well, Live Forever
. Snort. Yeah, right. I carried the book over to one of the chairs and sat down.
Well, whatever ailed you, this book could cure it. Acne,
allergies, anemia, anger. Heel spurs, hemorrhoids, hiccups. Jealousy, jet lag. Phobias, poor body image, postnasal drip.
Heart disease, page 253.
Oh, man. All the things, all the tricks he could’ve tried, the safety measures he could’ve taken. He could’ve cut out meat, dairy, and processed foods. He could’ve taken chromium, magnesium, vitamins C and E, and selenium, he could’ve done yoga. Or meditated, he could’ve visualized himself swimming easily through the four clean chambers of his heart and out into the coronary arteries, shining a healing blue light on the artery walls as he swam, letting go of all troubling emotions. “Picture something worrisome to your heart such as anger, sadness, or injustice. Throw it over your left shoulder and let it go.”
“That’s a good book. On special, forty percent off because it’s after Christmas.” The woman who had been stocking shelves plopped down in the other chair, and immediately a fluffy white cat that for some reason I hadn’t seen before jumped up in her lap. “What are you looking up?” She had a round, smiling face framed by a lot of streaky reddish hair, pleated in cornrows and tied with gold beads. And she had a low, gentle, husky voice that took the edge off her nosy question.
“Heart trouble.”
“Have you got heart trouble?”
“No.” I closed the book, kept pressing it along the spine, erasing the page I had turned to. “My dad. He had coronary heart disease caused by mild atherosclerosis, hypertension, and elevated blood cholesterol. He died.” The woman nodded sadly. “He wasn’t a type A, though. He wasn’t overweight and he didn’t smoke. He jogged every two days.”
“What was his dosha?”
“Pardon me?”
“In Ayurveda, you can be either
pitta, vata,
or
kapha. Pittas
are passionate and fiery and hot-tempered, and interestingly, they often live in New England.
Vatas
, they’re creative
and romantic, usually have curly hair and dry skin, they can get spacey and very ungrounded when they’re nervous.
Kaphas
are more phlegmatic, very calm and forgiving, large-eyed people who tend to gain weight. They’re your couch potatoes. We’ve got all three in us, of course, but usually one predominates.”
“Um, well, I guess he’d be mostly…What was the first one?”
“
Pitta
. Did he have red hair and freckles?”
“No.”
“Blond?”
“Sort of. Light brown.”
“There you go. Strong metabolisms and effective digestive systems, that’s your
pittas
. It’s a shame he didn’t take arjuna. That’s an herb that strengthens the heart muscle and promotes healing. I’m so sorry.” She leaned forward, frowning in sympathy. “I just
know
it could’ve helped him.”
I pressed the book to my chest and looked at the fire in the woodstove, murky orange behind the dirty glass window. I was standing by the stove in the Markuses’ kitchen when I heard about my parents’ accident. We were making fudge. Jamie, Caitlin, me, and Marianne Werner. It was about eleven-thirty at night, and we were arguing over whether to put in walnuts. The phone rang but stopped ringing before Jamie could answer. “My mom got it,” she said, and went back to stirring the pot on the stove. About a minute later Mrs. Markus came in the kitchen with Mr. Markus. He had on his robe and pajamas, but she was still in her clothes. I thought we were making too much noise and she’d brought him with her to lay down the law. But they stood in the doorway and didn’t say anything, so then I thought they’d come for some fudge. I kept waiting for Jamie to tell them it wasn’t ready yet. Mr. Markus said, “Ruth?” I didn’t even think he knew my name. As soon as he said it, I knew something awful had happened.
“Would you like some tea? By the way, I’m Krystal.” The
lady got up and went behind the counter, coming back with two ceramic mugs. “It’s chrysanthemum today.”
I said, “Well, um.”
“Good for the capillaries.”
“Really?”
“No question. Have you had headaches lately? Or insomnia?”
“Yeah. Yes, I have.”
“This’ll help. You’ll find you see better, too.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I took the mug, which Krystal had filled from a copper pot at the back of the stove. “Mm,” I said politely. “It’s a little…”
“Bitter? Put some honey in. Here. I like it plain now, but it took some getting used to.” The white cat jumped back up in her lap. Even over the hiss of the woodstove, I could hear it purring. Krystal had a pretty face, and she was a little over-weight; she looked like Tracy Chapman, only white and older. Probably a
kapha
. What I couldn’t figure out was how she could wear all those clothes in this hot, hot store. She had on a long brown wool skirt with a yellow turtleneck and a multicolored woven sort of tunic thing over that, plus beaded moccasins and long socks and a bright red and orange scarf around her waist, cinching in the tunic. Wasn’t she boiling?
“I’m Ruth,” I remembered to say. “Ruth Van Allen.”
“Hi.” She beamed, her face warm and friendly and bland. “It’s quiet today. Not many customers.”
“I guess you wouldn’t need any help, then.”
“Hm?”
I stared into my cup, amazed. “Guess you don’t need anybody to work for you. After school for like three hours or something, three to six o’clock, and then weekends.” I glanced up. Krystal didn’t look embarrassed or disapproving or disgusted, she looked thoughtful. “I’ve been looking for a job ever since my father died.” A little exaggeration; I’d been thinking about getting a job, but this was the first time I’d done anything about it. Mom getting hers pushed me into it.
“I could use somebody, actually.” Krystal set her mug on the arm of her chair. She turned the limp-limbed cat over and cradled it like a baby, smiling into its blissed-out face. “I’m getting a certificate in naturopathic doctoring, and I need time to study. You’re in high school?”
“A sophomore. I get out at quarter to three and I could be here by five after, every day except Monday and Thursday. Soccer practice.”
“That would be good. Know anything about natural healing? Health foods? It’s okay,” she said when I didn’t answer. “Mostly you’d be working with stock anyway, not customers. I could teach you.”
As soon as she said “I could teach you,” I wanted the job. I had to have it. I could learn everything: Ayurveda, vitamins, aromatherapy. It was all here, the secret was right in this room—and a few minutes ago I didn’t even know there was a secret. Here was a way for me right now, I could get in early, not have to wait till I was twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty, to learn it.
“This would be so great,” I said, trying not to bounce or yell or do anything stupid. “I’m very responsible. I have a Social Security number. I could work all day on Saturdays and Sundays.”
“Well, I’m not open on Sundays.”
“Oh.” I blushed, hoping I hadn’t offended her religious beliefs or something. “Do you want me to fill out a form or anything?”
She shrugged, still cradling the cat. “I don’t know what it would be. A form? You could write down your phone number, I guess.”
Mom was going to ask me a lot of questions. Like how much this job paid. But I didn’t know how to ask without sounding rude. I decided to tell Mom the minimum wage, and if it turned out to be more, that would just be even better.
The bell above the door jingled, somebody came in. Krystal looked over but didn’t get up. She was a very laid-back shopkeeper. I already loved that about her. “Well,” I said, “I
guess I should go home. Thank you for the tea, it was very good. When do you think you would like me to start? I mean…” I blushed again. “Is it for sure? Are we doing this?”
“Yeah! I have an excellent feeling about it, don’t you?”
“I do! I really do.”
“You know, I read auras, among other things. Yours is a sort of slate blue—today, anyway—and my cool greenish silver meshes perfectly. I know we’re going to get along great. You’re a…” She narrowed her eyes, studying me. “Aquarius—am I right?”
“Cancer.”
“I knew it, it had to be one or the other. I’m Pisces, which is water, too. Ruth Van Allen, we’re going to get along like two koi in a lily pond.”
“Oh, wow.” I hugged my arms, thrilled.
I woke up from a dream I have a lot these days, that I’m running for a train. It’s nighttime and very foggy, rainy, and I hear the train whistle blow and I start running toward the tracks. I have on my black jeans and my army green V-neck sweater—this is very important for some reason, what I’m wearing, because it never changes—and I start running along beside the train, which is going faster and faster. I reach out and grab for the cold metal handle, and
whoosh
, pull myself up, and the train picks up speed. I just hang there, feeling the wet wind in my face—and that’s the end. I have this dream
constantly
. Running in my black jeans and green sweater in the fog after a train.
Then I couldn’t go back to sleep. I got up to get a drink, and heard the TV on downstairs.
“Mom? You still up? It’s three-thirty.”
“No, I’m not still up. I fell asleep, I just woke up.”
I pretended to believe that. She stays up every night almost all night with the TV or the radio or the CD player on, and in the morning she pretends she’s just woken up. Then she sleeps all day. She still hadn’t gotten around to taking all
the Christmas decorations down. Not that she put that many up this year.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“Nothing. A movie.”
I made her move over so I could sit next to her on the sofa. All the lights were out except for the TV. She was huddled under a chenille throw Gram got her for Christmas, wearing one of Dad’s old gray Henley shirts and her nightgown. She looked terrible. “I can see that. What is it?”
“Why are you up? You should be in bed.”
“I’ll go in a sec.”
“It’s James Stewart in
Call Northside 777
. I thought it would be a Hitchcock, but it’s not.”
“Who’s this guy?”
“He’s in prison, he’s been in for eleven years for killing a cop. James Stewart’s a reporter who thinks he’s innocent and is trying to get him out.”
I love watching old movies with Mom. It’s one of the best things we do together. That and going shopping and then having lunch in a restaurant. Although we haven’t done that in a long time, but we used to. We’d almost always get ice cream instead of food, and she always made that seem exciting and nervy and forbidden. “We won’t mention this to your father,” she’d say in a low voice, ordering two double hot fudge sundaes, one with nuts and one without, and I’d say, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” We’d laugh, and eat ice cream until our stomachs hurt.
It was a pretty good movie. James Stewart got Richard Conte out of prison at the last second by enlarging a photograph that showed the date on a newspaper, which proved he was innocent. In the very end, they showed Richard Conte getting out of jail and meeting his wife and son and her new husband. She’d divorced him but she still loved him, and she wasn’t going back to him because now she had E. G. Marshall.