The Way of Women (14 page)

“Hello … Oh, good morning, Mother.”

Typing while listening wasn’t terribly hard for someone who routinely juggled three balls at the same time. “I know. I’m glad you are having a good time. Florida must be heating up by now.”

She got Brandy in trouble once more and pulled the page out of the roller.

“Oh, our good news … Susan felt the baby move for the first time. I forgot to tell you that last time we talked.” She held the ten typed pages by the side and tapped them on the desk, creating the order of another chapter.

“You did what?” Her smile widened as she punched the three holes and inserted the pages in the growing notebook. “Is he nice? What does he do for a living? You sound positively giddy.” Katheryn leaned back in her chair and gave her mother her full concentration. “Bernie what?” Doodling with one hand, she shook her head at the design of linking hearts that appeared from under her pencil. She’d not heard such joy in her mother’s voice since before her father’s death two years earlier. And while Jessica Woods had said no one could ever replace her Ronald, the tone said differently now.

Katheryn fought a pang of resentment, banishing it with the sword of grace. Her mother certainly deserved some happiness at this stage in a life that had never been easy.

“Can I tell the family?”

Lucky wandered over from her spot in the sun on the carpet and placed one paw on Katheryn’s knee. Switching from doodling to petting
the dog took no concentration, and it soothed her as much as it did Lucky.

Her stomach rumbled again. “So, when will you be home?” Jessica had flown to Florida to visit her sister back in February, sure that she’d stay only a few weeks, which turned into three months.

“He asked you to what?” She sat upright, dislodging the dog in the jerking of the chair. “Ah, I don’t know. Do you have to be in such a rush? I mean, come on, Mom, we haven’t even met the man. Surely you should come home first and let him come visit you … us and …” She pushed her hair back again, electricity standing strands on end while the rest swept back to hang limply. Why hadn’t she done her hair? Set the hot rollers? Put on her makeup. She could always deal better with a crisis when she had her armor in place.

“Mom, please, no, I’m not saying you are making a mistake …” Even though he could be some gold digger after her money. While Jessica was not wealthy, she had a home all paid for and enough in the bank and investments to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Her husband had provided well for her.

“Mother, please don’t cry. I’m not judging Ben or Bernie or whatever his name is. I’m sure I will love him to pieces, but please, come home and let’s all talk this over without any pressure. David will—I mean, all of us want to meet him first, and if you do decide to marry again, I really want to be there.” She stared out the window, noticing the geranium needed both watering and pruning.

Sensing her unease, Lucky laid her head on Katheryn’s knee and whined for attention.

“Good, I’ll talk to you again this evening, and yes, of course, if Bernie is there, I’d love to chat with him.”
What kind of a man would be in such
a hurry? What’s his agenda?
“Bye, Mother, and give Aunt Estelle a hug for me.”
I’ll just bet she approves, if it would get you moved down there. Of course she’s a great judge of men. She’s only had four husbands, tried all kinds
.

Katheryn hung up the phone, reminding herself that she was being unchristian and judgmental without knowing all the facts. But what a shock! Why had her mother not mentioned this man before? Why did she have such an unpleasant taste regarding this whole thing? Boy, will David have something to say about this.

“Come on, girl, time for some brunch, since I missed breakfast a long time ago.” Strange how the house seemed lonely today when most of the days her men were gone off to work or school anyway. Was it because David hadn’t called like he usually did during the day, just to touch base? Although he hadn’t been doing that so often these last months either. One thing she’d learned about depression, the person suffering from it had a hard time thinking of anyone—but himself. “Should call it the ‘me disease.’ ”

Lucky wagged her tail, glanced toward the cupboard where the doggy treats were stored and then back to Katheryn.

“All right, I get the picture.” She dug out a treat, and the crunch of teeth on the rock-hard food filled the quiet kitchen.

Katheryn opened the cupboard doors and stared at the boxes and cans therein. Too late for cereal, too early for tuna. She moved to the fridge. Too early for salad, the leftover lasagna probably wore a gray-green dress by now, too lazy for bacon and eggs. She reminded herself she had planned to bake an apple pie for David—his favorite.

In a few minutes, she took mug and filled plate back to her office and the waiting manuscript. Brandy, here I come.
If I can keep going for a couple more hours, I’ll have the rough draft finished—a major accomplishment. More good news to share. David, hurry home
.

“Nuts.” The ringing phone jerked her back from Brandy’s world. She glanced at the clock as she reached for the receiver, wishing she could ignore the persistent whine as other authors she knew did. She had a perfectly good answering machine, which was rarely used other than when no one was home.

“Hello.”

“Mom.”

At the tone of Susan’s voice, Katheryn bit back her request to talk later. “What’s wrong?”

“H-has Dad come home yet?”

“Nope, he said late afternoon. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I hope. Have you had the television or radio on?”

“When I’m home alone? Get serious.”

“Ah …”

“Just spit it out, honey, you’re making me nervous.” Katheryn stared at the calendar on her desk. David Larson’s cartoon of an ant heap usually made her smile. She picked up a pencil to doodle with.

“Mom, Mount St. Helens erupted this morning at about eight thirty. Do you have any idea what—where Dad was camping?”

Katheryn’s pencil dropped to the floor. Frozen in place. Nothing moved; not breath, not heartbeat, not corpuscle.

“Mom!”

Katheryn blinked and wet her lips with her tongue. “I … I’m here.”

D
addy’s coming home, Daddy’s coming home.” Lissa spun in a circle in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Mellie watched her daughter, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her to keep her from falling and possibly bruising. These brief bursts of energy, reminding her of the way life used to be, when Lissa danced and sang her way through each moment, were treasures to be hoarded, stored in the secret places of her heart. She forced herself to sing along.

Lissa wound down into a heap on the floor, still smiling, her arms wrapped around her middle. “Do you think he’s already left?”

“No, he said he’d leave around four, or as soon as he delivered his last load.”

“And he’s going to stay home?”

“We’ll see.” So much depends on … Mellie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. As soon as she had dinner in the oven, she and Lissa would take a long bubble bath together. They’d play with the bubbles and make fancy hairstyles with the shampoo froth. She glanced at the clock. Ten. If
she cooked the roast on two hundred, it would be melting tender by five or six.

“Mr. Johnson would like to come for dinner.”

“I thought of that too. Do you want to call him?” Mr. Johnson lived next door and over the last two years had taken the place of the grandfathers who lived too far away to be a regular part of their lives. Not that they particularly wanted to.

Lissa held the receiver to her ear. “What is his number?”

Mellie repeated the number slowly so Lissa could dial. “Tell him around five.” She kept one ear on the conversation as she chopped onions to season the roast. Lissa’s giggle said Charles Johnson was teasing her in the gentle way he had that always brought a sparkle to her daughter’s eyes.

“He said he would love to come, and can he bring something?” Lissa held the receiver against her chest.

“Ask him if he has any of his frozen corn left.”

Lissa relayed the message and giggled again. “Do you want five pounds or ten?” She deepened her voice in imitation of their neighbor.

Mellie laughed too. “Tell him enough for four people for dinner.”

“He wants to know if you want sweet pickles, too?”

Mellie nodded. Mr. Johnson not only had the best garden in the country, but he made his own pickles and jams and froze all the vegetables he could. Knowing him, he’d bring some surprise for Lissa also. When one time she’d accused him of spoiling the little girl, he’d looked hurt. “But she’s my only grandchild,” he’d said, and Mellie never mentioned such a thing again.

Lissa said goodbye and hung up the phone. She picked up her rabbit and, clutching the stuffed animal in one arm, wrapped the other around her mother’s slender hips.

“You need a snuggle?”

“Uh-huh.”

Mellie fitted the top on the roaster pan and, after sliding the pan in the oven, turned off the burner. Ignoring the breakfast dishes and the preparation mess, she scooped up her daughter and deposited the two of them in the rocker in front of the window, where the sun could warm her shoulders.

Laying her cheek on Lissa’s soft hair, she let her mind relax along with her body. For the first time in a while, things seemed to be turning around for them. She pushed with her toe and set the rocker to creaking in gentle harmony with the soothing motion. Within moments, Lissa slumped against her breast, sound asleep, Mellie’s eyelids grew heavy, and slowly the chair ceased its song.

A knock on the door sometime later roused Mellie from her nap. Gently, carefully, she lifted Lissa as she stood and laid her on the couch. Mr. Johnson always knocked three, pause, and one, softly so that if Lissa were sleeping, she might not hear. Mellie opened the door, her welcome smile wide. “Come in.” She kept her voice low so that Lissa could sleep on.

“Are you listening to the radio or television?” He, too, whispered, bending slightly from his former basketball star height.

She shook her head. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll put the coffee on.” They both glanced over at the sleeping child and, like coconspirators, tiptoed into the other room.

“Oh, it smells heavenly in here.” Charles Johnson inhaled once and then again. He set his basket full of goodies on the table, paused, then turned to Mellie, who was filling the coffeepot at the sink.

“Mellie, where did you say Harvey was driving truck?”

“Above the Toutle River, down by Castle Rock, why?”

“That’s on Mount St. Helens?”

“Yes.” At the slight quaver in his voice she turned to look up at him. “Mr. Johnson, what is it?”

“Mount St. Helens erupted this morning. I didn’t turn the TV on until I’d read the paper after church.”

Mellie fumbled for the burner with the coffeepot. “H-how bad?”
Oh, God, not now. Where Harvey is, keep him safe, oh, God, please
.

J
enn, come here! Now!”

Jenn bailed out of bed at the sound of her father yelling. Norman Stockton never yelled. He hardly spoke ten words in a row and usually in a near monotone unless he was really riled about something. Had the world come to an end or what?

She grabbed her short terry robe off the oak bedpost and shoved her arms in the sleeves as she clambered down the stairs. “Where are you?”

“Out on the deck.” Her mother answered as she most usually did to any question not directed to Norm personally and even then if one needed an answer in a timely fashion.

Jenn finger-combed her hair back, wishing she had a rubber band. She pulled open the sliding glass door that still stuck after all these years. Another of those things on her mother’s honey-do list that her father never looked at until the item ceased to function.

“Oh my God.” Tears burned as she spoke the words. “When did it start?”

“About eight thirty. Didn’t you feel the earthquake?” Clare glanced
over her shoulder. “You didn’t put any slippers on. You’ll freeze your feet.”