Simple Gifts (20 page)

Herman's headstone lay there, bleak, small, and unimportant. I stood in front of the grave, uncertain where to start. Confession would be as good as anything.

Clearing my throat, I began. “I'm sorry, Herman. I'm here to ask for your forgiveness. For all the times I made fun of you so I could be one of the kids, for all the times I embarrassed and hurt you. I showed disrespect, when in my heart I loved you—but I never told you so.”

I fought back tears. “There were so many things I didn't tell you, Dad. Things like I got married. My husband walked out on me and left me with a two-year-old child, Sara. He was a bum, but a bum with a silver tongue and a brilliant mind. Sara's your grandchild. You met her once when I came home to see Aunt Beth after one of her strokes. Of course you didn't know she was your grandchild. I don't think I said over two words to you during that short visit. I'm sorry; I'm so sorry for all the times I failed you. I was a different person then—-young and self-centered. Thought-I-knew-it-all Marlene. But I was the one with problems.

“Like Uncle Eugene used to say, I couldn't see the forest for the trees. Well, it took awhile, but I see those trees, Dad.” It was getting harder to hold back the emotion. “I know I'm not the only person with problems, and whatever they are, I can't outrun them. Believe me, I've tried and failed. I have to face them head-on and that's not easy.

“You never knew—or maybe you did know about Vic and me. I loved him.” I hugged myself. “I loved him so much it hurt, but I knew I couldn't give him children. I couldn't or wouldn't because I was scared. Scared that my child would be like you, Dad. Now I realize there are worse things than having a childish mind, like having an adult mind but a child's behavior. That's me, Dad. Adult-challenged. I've tried to solve my problems on my own and made a big mess of my life. I've finally decided I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be a martyr. I can choose to let others validate my happiness, or I can make my own.”

I looked up at the gray sky. “I'm thinking on this cool, chilly spring day that I'm going to choose to be happy—to choose to be responsible for my actions and not lay blame to them. I think, Dad, that maybe I'm starting to grow up.”

Tears finally coursed down my cheeks as I dropped to my knees beside his grave, cleansed, like the Sunday morning I'd been baptized, dipped in water made whole by the grace of God. Could Herman hear me? Would he ever know that the daughter he loved, loved him back?

I think he did. If not back then, he certainly knew now.

On the walk back to the car I passed the remainder of the family plots. I spotted Eugene's foot's grave. In the past, the story had meant nothing to me but a rather bizarre tale from an even more bizarre family. Suddenly I knew he could use a word of encouragement too. Poor Uncle Eugene's remains were being fought over like two hens squawking over the same kernel of corn.

What would he think of this disgraceful fight for his foot? Not much, I'd guess. The Eugene I'd known wouldn't have approved of spending good money on trivial pursuits. Eugene had been a giver, not only of his time to women—all women—but deep inside the man's perfidious soul, goodness lurked.

I recalled when a tornado had once cut a large swath through the county. Eugene had barely slept for days as he went about helping the victims restore order to their lives. I'd watched him stack cases of bottled water and canned goods in the trunk of his old Chevy. Then he invited me to drive the storm-ravaged neighborhoods and distribute the gifts. The distribution made an impression. And since the drive ended in an ice-cream cone for me, I enjoyed the time I spent with him immensely.

“Thanks, Eugene.” I brushed my hand across his marker.

On the way home I stopped by the market for fresh ground sirloin. Ingrid liked meat loaf. Adding mashed potatoes, green beans, and peach pie would make my curmudgeon aunt all smiles this evening. I longed to ask Joe to dinner, but I wouldn't, not without Vic. And I wasn't going to invite trouble.

Yes, it was my place to go to him, but I hadn't matured quite that much.

As plans often are, mine were altered when I ran into Joe at the market. He was leaving as I was walking in. He paused, his eyes skimming my muddy clothes and rain slicker. “You been pig wrestling?”

“Nope. Conscience wrestling.” I grinned. “Funny, but I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” He winked. “Women. I attract them like flies to watermelon rind.”

“Before your head swells and your hat doesn't fit anymore, I hasten to tell you that my thoughts have no romantic intonation.”

“None?”

“Not even a tiny bit. They're more gluttonous in nature.”

“Dinner!”

“Meat loaf. Ingrid's house. Five-thirty.” I might as well have said he'd won the lottery.

“You're on.” He smacked my hand in a playful high five. “Can I bring anything?”

“Can you cook?”

“Can't fry a decent egg.”

“Then please attend with an empty hand or dish.”

The unspoken words hung between us: what about Vic? Not including Vic in the invitation was equivalent to not brushing my teeth in the morning. In the past he hadn't needed an invitation, but Joe must have known the silent war waging between us. Thankfully, he let the prickly moment pass without comment.

“Well…I'd better get Mrs. Kelp her milk. Her arthritis is acting up and she didn't want to get out in the damp air.”

He walked off, and I continued into the store, suddenly feeling less buoyant. Without Vic, the dinner was just…food.

Late Tuesday afternoon the house swam in the fragrance of pie baking in the oven and meat loaf browning on the rack. The persuasive aromas drew Ingrid from her lair. She rolled into the kitchen around four, her lap full of the afternoon mail. “We having company?”

I peeled potatoes and rinsed them under running water. “Joe's coming over around five-thirty.”

“What about Vic?”

I pretended to be absorbed in filling a pan with water. “Haven't talked to him.”

She sniffed the fragrant air. “Is that peach pie I smell?”

“I thought you might enjoy one.”

“Hope you got enough sugar in it.” She picked up a stack of letters and leafed through them. Her fingers slowed as she held an envelope up to the light, squinting. “What's that say, Marlene? I don't have my glasses with me.”

I dried my hands and reached for the letter, eyes drawn to the Maui postmark. In the upper left-hand corner,
Claybridge Law Firm
jumped out. Prue Levitt Moss had volleyed the ball back into our court.

“It's from Prue's lawyer.”

“Open it.”

Oh brother. Why didn't she leave me out of this? Wasn't I trying to change, become a decent, upstanding, Christlike role model?

I picked up the letter opener and neatly slid the blade beneath the flap. The firm's letterhead had a Lion's face emblazoned across the heading. I scanned the body text.

Dear Mrs. Moss:

I am writing on behalf of my client, Prue Levitt Moss, concerning the status of her late husband's foot. While Mrs. Levitt Moss is sympathetic to your feelings on the matter, she was Eugene Moss's legal wife at the time of his death, which gives her the greater claim of ownership. Mrs. Levitt Moss has been patient, but this situation cannot be prolonged. If she has not received notice that the foot has been exhumed and shipped, she will be forced to take further legal action. It is not my client's wish to cost you your life's savings, but her grief for her late husband will not allow her to give up her quest for ownership of said foot. We will expect to hear from you by return mail. If you do not respond to this letter within thirty days, we will be forced to take action.

Respectfully yours
,

Derek Claybridge, Attorney

Ingrid chortled. “Ha! Call R J and read the letter to him. We'll fight this to the Supreme Court!”

I stopped her. “There's no need to involve your lawyer in this and cost you yet another legal paper to file.” I moved to the phone. “I'll take care of it.”

“You?” Ingrid shifted in her chair.

“Me.” I glanced at the clock realizing that it was the middle of night in Maui. I'd have to call in the morning—and Joe would be here any minute.

Ingrid's lower lip jutted like a tenacious bulldog. Clearly she wasn't convinced I could handle the matter. “You best call R J”

I'd best do a lot of things, but calling R J Rexall wouldn't be one of them.

I'd put a stop to this nonsense, pronto.

Ingrid sulked during dinner; I knew I'd upset her by not letting her lawyer handle the letter, but in this instance, the case was pretty clear cut. The two women could haggle over the foot until the cows came home, but like it or not, Ingrid was Eugene's legal wife and heir when he lost the foot. According to R J, Ingrid had been right all along—the severed appendage was a completed gift, so to speak. Ingrid owned the foot—for whatever comfort that might bring. If Prue wanted to fight in court for body remains, and have Eugene's bones flown to Maui and reburied, then she could have a case, but I had serious doubts the woman had the fortitude to carry out the mission. Even with an attorney nephew and accident settlement lining her bank account, there had to be a limit to the amount of money she would be willing to spend. With Ingrid out of the picture, the haranguing would lose its appeal.

“Marly—” Joe shoved back from the table and patted his belly straining over his belt—“even my Melba couldn't bake a better peach pie.”

Smiling, I dipped my spoon in the syrupy pie dish. “High praise, sir, and I thank you.”

He leaned to get a paper sack sitting on the counter. I'd seen him carry it in and wondered what he'd brought. Nothing to eat, I hoped. “Got something to show you ladies.”

Ingrid the Discrete muttered. “Not another one of your foolish inventions. You nearly killed Mattie with your last one.”

“It didn't hurt her—speeded her up a bit, but didn't hurt her.” He took a pile of nuts and bolts out of the sack and laid them on the table. Then out came an odd-looking robotic frame.

I peered at the strange assortment. “What is it?”

“A glass robot.”

“Glass? That's aluminum—or—what's that stuff Erector sets are made of?”

“Don't know, but it's neither. It's hard plastic, and it's not a ‘glass robot,' it's a Glass Robot.”

I turned my palms up.

Enthusiasm brimming now, Joe hurriedly assembled his newest creation. In moments, he set the hard plastic on the kitchen floor. “Now, be prepared to be astounded.” His gaze roamed the table. “This your best china, Ingrid?”

She sniffed. “Certainly not. Everyday stuff—”

He picked up a coffee cup and smashed it to the floor. Ingrid and I gave a collective gasp. Glass shattered and flew in opposite corners of the floor.

“Joe Brewster!” Ingrid's features mottled. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Don't get upset. I'll buy you a new cup—saw one like it at Wal-Mart last week. Now ladies, keep your eye on the robot.” He flipped a switch and noise exploded. Stiff-legged, the robot moved across the floor pulling up shards of glass. Huge hunks and pieces sucked into the frame.

“Is it magnetic?” I shouted above the clattering roar.

“No! I put a souped-up, one-horsepower vacuum motor in it!” He beamed. “Ain't she a beauty?”

The robot skimmed the floor grabbing broken glass like a Hoover. The concept was sound—what woman didn't dread the thought of broken glass and tiny invisible slivers found weeks later? Now I got it! It wasn't a glass robot, it picked up glass—ergo, a Glass Robot.

Ingrid's attention followed the invention, eyes round. “Great day in the morning, Joe. You might be onto something this time.”

“Watch.” He smashed a water glass, and the robot whirled and attacked the debris.

“This is great!” I called above the din. “But the noise—it's so loud!” You couldn't hear yourself think. Women wouldn't allow the gadget in their households unless it ran quieter.

“I'm working on that!”

Ingrid blocked his hand with a stern look when he reached for another glass.

Glass hitting hard plastic beat a rhythm. The robot made a wide sweep of the kitchen, then turned on a dime and darted through the kitchen doorway. Springing to our feet, Joe and I followed behind. Ingrid trailed in the wheelchair. The invention had picked up speed. RPMs revved. The thing was moving fast now. Paper clips, ballpoint pens, Ingrid's crochet needles—all stuck to the metal plate on the front of the robot.

Ingrid went ballistic. “My needles!”

The robot moved down the hallway, attracting anything in its path. It caught the hem of Ingrid's lace cloth covering a hall table and jerked it loose. A lamp toppled and shattered.

Wheeling, the robot sucked glass. The device was almost comical looking with the remains of three ballpoint pens and at least a dozen paper clips stuck to its surface. The android headed down the hallway.

Ingrid waved her hands in the air. “Turn the thing off, Joe!”

The inventor lunged for the robot, but it disappeared behind a chair. When it emerged, black hairpins and a gold chain had been added.

I dodged Joe, trying to catch the pesky little creature that suddenly had taken on a life of its own. Joe grasped it. The motor roared. Smoke filled the room.

“Shut it off!” Ingrid pounded her hands on the arms of her wheelchair. “It's smoking up the curtains and ceilings!”

“I'm
trying!
“

I wouldn't have believed that one small mechanical machine could dispense so much smoke! The room boiled with the stuff. I coughed and covered my nose, eyes burning.

“Shut it off, Joe!”

“I'm trying! Blessed switch is faulty.” The sound of frantic clicks, then I saw a trail of blue smoke fogging down the hallway as he rushed out of the house carrying the invention.