“That’s all right, Leonard. You tried your best.”
“But now, what do I do with Mrs. Anthony’s mail?”
“You can leave that here too.”
“She lives here with you, then?”
“That’s right. She lives here with me. These are her daughters, Rosalind and Valerie.”
Leonard nodded in my direction. I peeked at him over the rim of the blanket. “How do you do?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. All I could think about was my frilly pajamas and the silk scarf and how Tillie had said no one would see me and how, not ten minutes out on the porch, a strange man was staring at me and asking questions.
“Well, okay,” our mailman said, giving up on me and looking back at Tillie. “So any mail that comes for you or Mrs. Anthony, I leave it all here?”
“That’s right, Leonard. Except if anything comes from
Mister
Anthony, send it right back to where it came from. I don’t believe Mrs. Anthony would want it.”
Leonard took off his cap and scratched the center of his bald spot. “Well now, I’m not sure I can do that, Mrs. Monroe. Tampering with the mail’s a federal offense, you know.”
“And failing to protect a lady is a moral offense, Leonard, so take your pick.”
Settling his cap back on his head, Leonard tucked the envelopes into the metal mailbox that hung beside the door. He stole another glance at Tillie, then began to back down the porch steps. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, I’d best get back to the route. Nothing stops the mail, you know.”
“Indeed,” Tillie said, but by the time she spoke, Leonard was already gone. “He always was a coward, that one,” she added. “Poor Leonard. It’s pitiful.”
“You think everything’s pitiful, Tillie.”
“No I don’t,” she said. “Not everything. Some things are downright beautiful.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, like – ”
“Yoo-hoo, Tillie!”
Now what?
I thought.
“Yoo-hoo, yourself, Esther. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, Tillie. I’ve been out in Sausalito with Jenny for a week, taking care of my newborn twin granddaughters.”
“Twin granddaughters, huh?”
“That’s right. I’m a grandmother now, twice over!”
With that, the person the voice was attached to showed up on the porch. I recognized her as the next-door neighbor who had brought us a macaroni hot dish shortly after we moved in. She was short and plump with ruddy cheeks and a stiff graying haystack of hair at the top of her head.
“Good for you, Esther. Have these girls got any names?”
“Oh my, yes. Both of them named for me.”
“Both of them?”
A nod of the head. “Iris Esther and Lily Esther.”
“Well, of all things,” Tillie said with a wave of her hand. “Sounds like Jenny’s planted a garden instead of giving birth. Though I’m sure they’re beautiful babies.”
“Oh, they are. And I’m not just saying that because I’m their grandmother. Now, who’s that on your lap? Isn’t that Mrs. Anthony’s little girl?”
“It sure is. She’s Valerie and that one over there, she’s Rosalind. You probably met them already, knowing you and your casseroles.”
“Oh yes, in fact I
have
met them. I made my blue-ribbon recipe for them soon as they moved in – you know, the one that got me first place at the county fair – ”
“Oh yes, that’s a good one, Esther.”
“And I brought it over to Mrs. Anthony warm from the oven. Fine woman, Mrs. Anthony. I’m glad a nice family moved into your house.”
“Me too, Esther. Roz, can you say hello to Mrs. Kinshaw?”
“Hello.”
The woman nodded at me, then said to Tillie, “You back visiting? Or baby-sitting?”
“No, I’m back living here.”
“You are?”
“Don’t look so shocked, Esther. It’s my house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but – ”
“Ross and I built this place with our own hands.”
“Of course I know that, but – ”
“And I intend to die here.”
“But – ”
“Tillie,” I interrupted.
“Yes, Roz?”
“I think you ought to take out an ad in the newspaper, tell the whole town at once. It would save you from having to repeat yourself.”
“Now, there’s a thought. I believe I’ll look into that.”
Esther Kinshaw stood there with her hands on her hips. “You mean you’re back for good?”
“That’s right.” Tillie nodded.
“And the Anthonys . . . they’re all living here too?”
“Well sure. Why not? This house was built for a whole family.”
“And Johnny let you move out of that nursing home?”
“Pshaw!” Tillie waved a hand. “He had no say. He can’t keep an old woman from dying in her own home.”
I moaned and said, “I’ll call the newspaper for you, Tillie.”
“Never mind that, Roz,” Tillie said, “I’ll do it myself. I’ve known the editor since the day he was born. Yup, little Winston Newberry, now the editor of the
Mills River Tribune
. Imagine. I used to change his diapers when his mother dropped him off at the church nursery. I’ll never forget it – he had a birthmark on his backside the shape of the Eiffel Tower.”
I pulled the blanket over my head, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“You know,” Mrs. Kinshaw said thoughtfully, “I heard it faded in later years.”
“What’s that, Esther?”
“The birthmark. Winston Newberry’s birthmark. I heard it practically disappeared.”
“Who told you that?”
Silence a moment, then, “I don’t remember.”
“Shame,” Tillie said. “I thought it something of a mark of distinction. I used to show it off to all the workers in the nursery. It seemed like a sign he was destined for great things.”
“Well, he did end up the editor of the
Mills River Tribune
. I guess that’s something.”
“Yes, I guess so.” Tillie sighed. “But I wonder what he might have achieved had the birthmark not faded.”
“Well, I – Oh look!” Mrs. Kinshaw said. “There’s the Irelands. Aren’t they adorable? Yoo-hoo, Rod and Marian!”
I sat up wondering what these adorable people looked like. I pictured leprechauns, the magical wee folk who sprang from Irish folklore. But the family I saw walking along in front of our house was a regular American family, a mother, a father, and a little red-haired girl about Valerie’s age. The father was carrying the child on his shoulders, her little hands clasped firmly in his.
“Look who’s back,” Mrs. Kinshaw hollered. “Tillie has moved back in. We’re all neighbors again!”
“Really?” the woman said. “But I thought – ”
I moaned again, curled up into a ball on the swing, and pulled the blanket back over my head. I put my hands over my ears to block the chatter of voices, the questions, the exclamations, the laughter. I even started humming to myself. I was so tired of hearing Tillie say she’d come back to die in her own home and no one was going to stop her. If I heard her say that one more time, I was certain I’d kill her myself and let her be done with it.
After a few moments the porch quieted, and I peeked out from beneath the blanket. “Are they gone?” I asked.
“Lovely family, the Irelands.”
I sat up and shrugged.
“That’s exactly how it should be,” Tillie went on.
“How what should be?”
“Families. Did you see the way Mr. Ireland loved on that little girl, how proud he was of her?”
“I was under the blanket, Tillie. I couldn’t see anything.”
“Yes, and that was really rather rude, Rosalind.”
“Well, I never said I wanted to come out here. I don’t feel good.”
“Do you need another gargle?”
“No. I just need . . .”
“What, Roz?”
I thought of the little girl perched high on her father’s shoulders and clenched my teeth. “You know, Tillie, I used to ride on my daddy’s shoulders just like that.”
“Did you now?”
“Yes, I did. And we used to go for walks, all up and down the streets of our neighborhood, sometimes all the way around Lake Calhoun and back home again. We’d take a bag of bread and feed the ducks and the fish and the geese.”
“It sounds very nice.”
“It
was
very nice. I don’t care what you think. Daddy was a good man.”
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“Yes you did. That’s what you told the mailman.”
“That’s not what I told the mailman. I told him not to deliver any letters your father might send to your mother.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No it isn’t.”
I peered out over the lilac bush and toward the street. “Daddy was a hardworking man,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that.” Tillie shifted her weight in the chair, settling a now slumbering Valerie in a more comfortable position on her lap.
“He worked construction, you know. He was a foreman. That’s the boss.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Most days when he came home, he’d reach into his shirt pocket and pull out a Sugar Daddy for me, my favorite candy. He’d say, ‘Here, Little Rose.’ That’s what he called me, his Little Rose. He’d say, ‘Here, Little Rose, some sugar from your daddy, who loves you.”
I pressed my lips together and looked at Tillie through narrowed eyes, daring her to deny my words, daring her to call me a liar. My daddy was every bit as good as Mr. Leprechaun from down the street, and I wouldn’t have Tillie thinking otherwise. I wouldn’t have her pitying me or my family. I watched as Tillie nodded slowly. She was stroking Valerie’s cheek.
Finally she said, “It sounds like you have some good memories of your father.”
“I do,” I said. “I have plenty of good memories.”
“Well then, you be sure to put those memories in a safe place and don’t lose them. The time will come when you’ll be glad you have something left of the man.”
I didn’t know what she meant and wasn’t sure I wanted to know. All I wanted was to be as safe and as satisfied as the little redheaded girl appeared to be, up there on her daddy’s shoulders.
“Lay yourself down now and take a nap,” Tillie said quietly, “just like Valerie here. The sun and some sleep will do you a world of good. Uh-huh, nothing like sun and sleep to cure what ails you.”
I was tired and did what I was told. As I settled my head on the pillow, I thought about Daddy. There were so many memories to pick through. I imagined myself a child gathering wild flowers in a field. The bad ones I plucked like weeds and tossed aside. The good ones I gathered together as though forming a bouquet, a keepsake of fragile images of the happy times with Daddy. I wanted to have at least that much of him. Once my bouquet was complete, I would tuck it away in a safe place, just as Tillie suggested, so that nothing and no one could take it away from me.
The warm sun was tempered by a soothing breeze, and soon I drifted off. I don’t know how long I slept, and I don’t think I dreamed. After a time I was awakened by Wally shaking my shoulder. “Roz, Tillie says you need to come in now.”
I drew in a deep breath and stretched. “Your hand stinks,” I said.
He lifted his fingers to his nose. “I washed,” he said with a shrug. “Hard to get the smell of blood out.”
“Blood? Yuck. I hate you working for the butcher.”
“How come?”
“It’s just . . . creepy.”
Another shrug. “It’s good practice.”
“For what?”
“For ’Nam. For killing the Vietcong.”
I sat up, shook my head. “I hope you’re kidding, Wally. Or else you’re turning really weird.”
“You want us to win the war, don’t you?”
I never even thought about the war. It had nothing at all to do with me, and it wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. “Wally?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Daddy knows where we are?”
Wally sniffed in disgust. “Who cares about him?”
“But, I mean, do you think he can find us?”
“I don’t know.” Wally sat down on the swing beside me. “Probably. He’s crazy but he’s not stupid. I’m sure he’ll figure out we went to live near Gramps.”
“But do you think he’d ever come after us? You know, try to get us to go home?”
“Naw, I really don’t think so. He’s probably already found somebody else he can make miserable.”
“But . . . what would you do if he did? I mean, what if he came around here and tried to talk Mom into going back to Minnesota?”
Wally looked out at the street, his head turning left and right like a beacon. And then he said easily, as though he were talking about swatting a fly, “If Alan Anthony ever came snooping around here looking for us, I’d kill him.”
“Wally is something of an angry young man, isn’t he, dear?” Tillie asked.
Her words reached me from far away, and Mom’s answer too seemed to float through the air a long time before finally coming to light in my mind. “He has good reason to be angry,” Mom replied.
I’d been vaguely aware of their voices for some time, but I wasn’t sure where they were, and as I struggled to rise up out of the depths of sleep, I wasn’t even sure where
I
was. I thought at first I was still on the porch with Tillie, but when I opened my eyes I saw I wasn’t on the porch at all but on the couch in the living room.
Oh yeah,
I thought,
now I remember.
I had settled down with a book to read, but still listless from the fever of the day before, I drifted off to sleep. Today was Sunday, not Saturday, and Mom was on the porch swing with her mending basket, just beyond the open window. Tillie must have followed her out while I was asleep, and now they were talking about Wally, who wasn’t home. He’d gone over to Grandpa’s to cut the grass, as their gardener was on vacation. Even though Gramps was paying him, I still thought it was good of Wally to go on his day off from his butchering job.
“Pity,” Tillie was saying. “He’d be such a nice boy if he just got rid of the chip on his shoulder.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it a chip on his shoulder, Tillie,” Mom said mildly. “He’s been through a lot. It hasn’t been easy for him.”
“I suppose it has to do with his father. Not that it’s any of my business.”
Mom didn’t respond for a long moment. I rubbed my eyes. I was fully awake now.
Finally Mom said, “Wally’s father is dead. He was killed by a sniper in Korea while serving with a MASH unit.”