Rocky Road (11 page)

I told Winnie about our move in the freezing car and taking off the mayor’s car door.

“Driving cross-country like that, knowing nobody, and now going solo in business. I’d say your ma’s got true grit fitting a Texan,” Winnie said.

“Pop used to say Ma had more guts than you could hang on a fence.”

Winnie let out one of her hearty laughs. I giggled too.

“Is your pop back in San Antonio?” she asked, and I explained about him moving to Galveston and how he didn’t write much. Truth was he never wrote, but I didn’t say that.

Winnie crossed her arms over her sparkly sweater. “Sounds to me like your mother’s been pulling double parent shifts for a while now.”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Jordan was hunched over the piano, smashing the keys with his hands.

“Too hard,” I signed, running over and lifting his fingers.

Winnie sat on the bench beside him. She took his palms and pressed them against the wooden side of the piano. “Tell Jordan to keep his hands still. Right here.”

She started playing what she called classic Motown. And she sang, swinging her shoulders and making her bangle bracelets jingle. The music bubbled in my heart like a bottle of cherry cola.

My favorite song was “Stop! In the Name of Love,” especially when Winnie raised her hand high like a traffic cop and shook her fanny.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear this child hears the music,” Winnie said, grinning as she watched Jordan raise his hand too.

As Winnie played song after song, I glanced at the framed pictures resting on the piano. In one, she was standing with four older men with their arms wrapped around each other. They all wore sequined vests. On closer look I recognized Melvin and Sam from Ma’s ice cream test-market session.

“That’s our band. The Salty Old Dogs. Melvin and I are the lead singers,” she said.

I bit into the last piece of peanut brittle. “Is Melvin your boyfriend?”

She let loose a laugh. “Us seasoned sisters don’t have boyfriends, but you could call us a twosome. That sounds more
sophisticated, doesn’t it?” Jordan was sitting on Winnie’s lap now. She was pushing his fingers as if he was playing.

“I bought this piano the very first day after I retired, and then taught myself how to play,” she said, rubbing the side of the piano after finishing a song. “All those years seeing so much pain and suffering in the ER, I swore one day I’d play the music of angels.” She stretched her back and laughed. “Ow-wee. Even with my built-in padding, these old bones don’t take kindly to benches anymore.”

I looked at the piano bench, already forming my craft plan. I would sew a patchwork bench cushion and double-stuff it with batting to make it extra comfy. I’d use a black trim border outlined in white lace, to complement the sofa. Each patch would reveal a different side of Winnie, like music and nursing. Maybe even Motown, though that might be tricky.

The wall clock chimed. Five-thirty. Ma would be home from signing the business papers any minute.

Winnie let out a yawn. “Excuse me! I’m overdue for my afternoon nap. That’s one of the advantages to being a card-carrying senior. Best you two run on because I get cranky without it.”

“Yes. Thanks for the snack,” I said, tugging Jordan and walking toward the door.

“We’re friends now, honey,” she said, sticking some peanut brittle in Jordan’s pants pocket.

I put our mugs in the kitchen sink and noticed a bag of potatoes on the counter. Winnie saw me looking.

“That’s for Catherine. I’m bringing meatloaf and mashed potatoes over to her later. Having MS makes cooking hard,” she said. “Am I guessing that Texans like meatloaf and mashed potatoes too?”

“As long as you leave the skins on and sprinkle hot sauce in the gravy,” I said.

“And it better be Tapatío sauce, right?”

“Right,” I said, all grins.

T
he weeks from January to mid-February blew by hard and fast, like the cold wintry winds that rattled the apartment windows. From Monday to Friday, Ma and I started having what we called Jordan handoffs. She would spend all morning at the shop fixing things up, then rush back to the apartment before Jordan’s bus arrived in the early afternoon. Then as soon as my bus got in an hour later, she’d return to A Cherry on Top for another work stretch.

Ma decided the Grand Opening would be on Sunday, April 15. Tax day. (Getting your taxes done, she reasoned, gave folks a good reason to treat themselves.) I’d fix Jordan’s dinner and help with homework and bath time. Most evenings Ma didn’t get back to the apartment until long after he was fast asleep. She always came in with her bag crammed with business papers. Sometimes she’d be holding a toolbox, looking worn and greasy like a mechanic. Once she showed up wearing her old deli smock, covered in blue paint. Her eyes always had charcoal shadows under them, but she never complained about being tired. She’d fix a pot of coffee and plop down on the futon for a few hours of studying the
Inside Scoop
and taking notes. She’d always pause after a while, look up, and ask, “How’s school?”

“School’s school,” I’d say, shrugging.

I didn’t tell her that I had straight A’s in my classes, including math. (Take that, Ms. Hockley!) Or that Pete and I played Texas hold ’em in study hall, and I beat him just about every time. And I didn’t tell her that Gabby and I had gotten to know each other better and that I didn’t mind her strange ways so much. I’d even confided in her a little about Ma’s new business and my worries about it. Gabby was a good listener. She kept encouraging me to join peer mediation, saying I’d get as much out of it as I gave, that I was exactly the kind of mediator who would “keep it real.” But because of Ma’s long workday, it would never happen. I had to take care of Jordan.

No, Ma and I didn’t talk about my life at school much, and I sure didn’t ask about the shop, even though I knew she wanted me to.

One drizzly Wednesday afternoon Winnie stopped by after school. I was slicing apples for Jordan’s snack, and she invited him to play in her apartment. “Just Jordan,” she said, winking at me. “Big sister here deserves a break.”

Jordan loved the idea, and off they went. Alone for the first time in weeks, I jumped onto the couch to watch a home-makeover show and work on a patch for Winnie’s piano-bench cushion. I was embroidering a nurse’s cap in mother-of-pearl thread using a scrap of white linen that Juanita’s grandmother gave me from an old skirt of hers.

But after an hour of embroidering, my hands started cramping and my chain stitches started looking sloppy. I got fed up with the show too, which was all about remodeling a bathroom on a shoestring budget. The host kept telling the money-strapped homeowners to retile, but personally I think stenciling and a fresh coat of paint give you more bang for your buck. That sure gave our run-down bathroom a fresh look on less than twenty dollars, and it only took a couple of hours to finish.

So I roamed over to Building Two—which was identical to Building One, even down to the fake tree missing leaves—and then on to Building Three, Assisted Living. Now
that
lobby was appealing. It had contemporary maple furniture with teal cushions and a set of sunflower paintings, even if it did smell like a hospital. The place was hopping with staff and residents. Next to the lobby was a hair salon, a game room with a Ping-Pong table and giant TV, a library, and a cafeteria where residents ate their meals.

I sank into a rocker by the front window of the lobby just as Chief walked in, pushing a metal cart stacked with grocery bags. Lots of them.

“Hi, Chief,” I called. He still had my vote for Schenectady’s oldest oddball, but I didn’t want him to think I was rude.

“Young lady,” he said as he passed, saluting with a brush of his hand to the fur trim around his parka hood.

The elevator opened and he pushed the cart in, but a wheel got stuck. He pushed it again, but it wouldn’t budge.

I jumped up to help, and together we wiggled it into the elevator. Before I knew it, the doors closed and we were headed up.

“This can’t all be yours,” I said, pointing to the groceries.

“’Course not. Plenty of folks around here can’t get out in winter, especially in Assisted Living, so we give them a hand.”

The doors opened, and I pushed the cart out. Chief followed. I could tell steering the cart on carpeting was hard for him, what with his prosthesis.

An aide passed beside an old man. The aide was telling a joke as he helped wheel the old man’s oxygen tank.

“Doesn’t the staff help with groceries?” I asked.

Chief looked annoyed at my question. “They only make deliveries once a week, so we supplement with a midweek run. A week’s a long time to wait if you run out of something, don’t you think?”

I nodded. Chief kept saying
we
, but he was the only one here besides me.

From one apartment to the next, we canvassed the second floor, delivering drug prescriptions, shampoo, cold medicine,
and aspirin, as well as candy bars and all sorts of snacks. Chief double-checked each order before we made a delivery, and he chitchatted with everyone. He took the job seriously, that’s for sure, until we headed to the third floor.

Then his face lit up like a kid getting presents. And just as we stopped at apartment 333, he ran a comb over his crew cut and popped a mint into his mouth.

Boy, was I curious who lived behind
that
door.

A tiny lady in wool slacks and a bright red turtleneck slowly opened the door, releasing a soapy scent into the hallway. She leaned on a walker and grinned through cherry lipstick when she saw Chief. “At last, my prince arrives!”

“You look sweeter than Vermont maple syrup, Adelaine. How’s rehab helping that hip?” he asked.

“I’m up and moving. Even if I am a slowpoke,” she said.

“The turtle beat the hare. That’s what I say,” Chief answered, serious like he was dishing out deep psychological wisdom.

“I’ve been looking forward to your visit all day. I gave my last cookie to my granddaughter when she stopped by earlier.”

Chief turned to me. “Look for the bag marked ‘Heisey.’ Adelaine Heisey,” he whispered.

“Mine has cookies, dear,” she said. “Sugar-free cookies. I’m a diabetic. I go through a bag a week.”

I held out the package for her, but Chief grabbed it first. “We’re full-service, Tess. We don’t let customers with walkers lift heavy bags.” He scowled as he walked into her apartment and put the bag on the kitchen counter.

Adelaine handed me money. “I saw you at your mother’s ice cream sampling party, but I don’t remember your name. I’ve never been good with names.”

I smiled. “I’m Tess Dobson.”

“Nice of you to help, Tess. Isn’t Frederick wonderful? I call him the Good Samaritan of Schenectady.”

I could think of better nicknames for Chief, but I didn’t tell Adelaine that.

Chief blushed like a teenager. “Aw, no trouble at all,” he said, kicking his good leg against the cart before he kissed her hand and “bid her farewell.” My oh my, Adelaine’s face turned as red as her turtleneck.

It took us two hours to make all the deliveries. Most of them were for Assisted Living folks, but we brought some to the other two buildings too. We had to go back up to the fifth floor in Building Two twice, being that Mr. Gulden in 529 was blasting opera music and didn’t hear us knock. And there was a mix-up with a lady in 305 who thought her prescription was filled incorrectly. Chief had to call the pharmacist, who explained that she got the generic version. It was the same drug but with a different name, and he had to tell her four times before she finally believed him.

“Same drug, same drug,” Chief whispered to me after we left her apartment, and I grinned.

The most unusual customer was the guy wearing a leather bomber jacket and smelling like he’d been dipped in aftershave. He practically sprinted past us in the lobby of Building Two.