When the Morning Glory Blooms (26 page)

Vinegar-and-water-soaked rag in one hand, she held onto the top of the step stool and climbed the two steps that would enable her to see the dark unknown of the fridge’s upper plateau. One swipe. She glanced at the rag. It had been too long since she’d done this. She folded the rag onto itself and took another swipe.

“Becky.”

His voice, behind her, held something that faintly resembled an apology.

“What?”

“Look at me. Please?” Gil stood in the archway with his jacket on and hers over his arm. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“I can see that. This is important.”

“Where would we go?”

“I called the realtor. He’ll let us in to see the place tonight. They’re pretty eager to sell.”

Is it a crime to throw a vinegar-soaked rag at the face of your beloved? Is that considered domestic abuse in this state? Lord, I need an answer quickly
.

She blew exasperation through her pursed lips in a whoosh. “I can’t believe you called him before we’d had a chance to discuss it.”

“Will you just look at it? Then we can talk?”

“Lauren—”

“—just left with Jackson. They’re going over to hang out at Noah’s for a few hours.”

Great. Wonderful. Peachy
. She tossed the rag in the general direction of the counter and climbed down to ground level. “Give me a minute to clean up.”

“Sure. I’ll start the car.”

Married that many years and he still didn’t know what “a minute to clean up” meant. He thought it was a literal minute.

Her jawed tightened. A duplex?

She ran a brush through her hair and spritzed a stubborn spot with hair spray. She changed from slippers to shoes, pulled a zippered vest over her turtleneck, and swiped at her mouth with tinted lip gloss. Certainly good enough to look at a duplex.

As she walked through the house to the back door, everything about their place seemed suddenly elegant and memory rich.

She found Gil in the driver’s seat, a half gallon of fuel used up while she’d cleaned up, that detail fully visible on his face.

“On Lexington?” she asked as she buckled in and hunkered down for an excursion far removed from her idea of fun.

“It’s not far from the bowling alley.”

“Now, there’s a plus.” She vowed to drop the sarcasm a notch. Point three on the bullet list.

“And there’s a unit just the reverse of this one on the other side,” the realtor said.

On heightened sarcasm alert, Becky resisted saying, “Good grief, there are TWO of them?”

“Potential,” Gil chimed in. “Think of the potential.”

The realtor, black trench coat flapping as he breezed through the icy rooms, explained, “On foreclosures like this,
unfortunately there’s a tendency for the previous owners to  . . .  to express their dismay.”

That would account for the cupboard doors hanging off their hinges, the graffiti on the living room wall, and the missing switch plates and baseboards. What would account for the South Sea Islands chain of stains on the bedroom carpet, or the putrid smell of undisciplined pets?

Becky put on her “I’ve always wanted to be a professional designer and remodel homes” hat. The potential still eluded her. All she could think about were the poor people who’d been foreclosed on and how they could not understand what kitty litter was for. “I’m not seeing it. The potential.”

Granted, the location wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. And the view from the sliding doors onto the patio must be pleasant enough in the warm months with the forest preserve abutting the backyard. The kitchen was surprisingly spacious, despite the loose-tooth cupboard doors. She tried to envision the smell of fresh paint overriding the current odors. Not a chance.

“I have time right now,” Gil said, “to invest some elbow grease and carpentry skills. Fix it up nice.”

The sarcasm clawed at her, begging to be given permission to speak. Captain Oblivious was happy to have time on his hands? And he thought he could turn the mismanaged pet motel into something habitable for humans? Not just humans. For her? Them?

The realtor rattled his keys and asked, “Would you like to see the other unit?”

“Sure,” Gil said at the same moment Becky answered, “No need.”

The three played three-way eye-contact tennis for a few moments, until Gil said, “I think we should look at it while we’re here.”

Becky considered the fine line between patience and lack of courage, between kindness and wimpiness. She wanted to run screaming to the car, pulling out her hand sanitizer as she ran. Instead, she followed the men to the other unit.

Mirror image. Except for the filth. This side was decidedly cleaner. No larger. No more homelike. But cleaner.

Gil clicked on the ceiling fan, then clicked it off. He checked the cupboard under the kitchen sink. He cared about leaks in a duplex she wouldn’t be caught dead living in?

“How soon could we get in and start working?” he asked.

Becky swallowed her “I didn’t have time to brush my teeth” gum. Her choking fit halted the conversation temporarily.

Assured Becky would live, Gil continued. “We’d have to make the purchase contingent on the sale of our house.” He looked at Becky, as if for confirmation of her agreement, as if proud for having thought of that point. Her mind raced back home to her sewing machine and a satin costume with the words
Captain Oblivious
embroidered on the cape. No more than a three-day project.

“Gil!”

“What? Oh, of course, we have to have some time to talk about it.”

“Of course,” the realtor said. “But as I mentioned earlier, a place like this could go in a snap.” His attempt to snap his fingers for emphasis failed.

Becky sniffed. Cat smell. But it wasn’t coming from this mirror-image apartment. She sniffed again. The odor clung to her coat!

“You haven’t said much, Mrs. Trundle. Did you want to see the closets? There’s a stackable laundry pair in each unit, just down the hall here.”

“Gil, I need some fresh air.” She coughed twice for effect.

“Okay. I think we’ve seen enough for tonight, Ron. I’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve made a decision.”

The click of the key in the lock sounded for all the world like, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Gil split his attention between the snow-dusted road and sideways glances at Becky. Her peripheral vision could win awards.

“Talk to me, Beck, my paragon of patience.”

What was that pain in her palms? Oh. Her fingernails.

“Beck, come on. What did you think? It’s our answer, right?”

Naive? Desperate? Delusional? Depressed? Was he so depressed about losing his job that he saw “answers” in the ridiculous? And what was she supposed to do? Would she push him deeper into Delusionland if she told him how insane his plan sounded? Give up their home and move into half of a duplex that should be condemned for the smell alone?
Gil, honey. I think it’s time you saw a doctor. The nice doctor will listen to you and help you, and if he can’t, he’ll prescribe something to make you think more clearly
.

“It’s not ideal, granted.”

“Gil. Seriously? You think I would seriously entertain the idea of moving into that  . . .  that  . . .  ?”

“Hovel?”

“You said it. I didn’t. And leave Jackson and Lauren out in the cold?”

“It has heat.” Was that whining in his voice?

“What?”

“The duplex. Heated. Air-conditioning, too. I think. Have to check on that.”

“All four of us would live in a bedroom and a half? You’d let Jackson crawl around on that disgusting carpet?”

Gil swung the car to the side of the road and slammed the shift stick into park. He left the motor and the windshield wipers running. “Are you nuts? It’s filthy!”

“At least we agree on one thing.”

“What did you think I meant by—? Oh, Becky!” He reached for her.

She pressed her body against the passenger-side door. His chuckles confirmed her suspicions that he’d lost his ever-loving mind. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate right now. Her husband was mentally deranged.

Gil raised his gloved hands, palms up. “You didn’t honestly—? Oh, honey. I’m not a complete idiot.”

Prove it
.

“We’d fix up that side. Tear out all the carpet. Probably have to replace most of the subfloor, too. Paint would help. And switch plates. We’d pay for fumigation, if we had to. But the other side wouldn’t need much. And there’s our answer.”

“The other side?”

“Beck, if we bought the whole building, both units, and let Lauren and Jackson live in half until she could afford for them to be on their own, and we lived in the other half until our financial situation improved, then we’d eventually wind up with two rental units and maybe a way to get back on track with our retirement plans. Providing, of course, I can get hired somewhere.”

How long had it been since she’d blinked? Or breathed?

“Selling our current house would be critical. But Ron thinks he might have a lead for us already. And if we could make a strong enough profit from that sale, we’d have the funds for remodeling the disgusting unit.”

Tears formed. “You  . . .  you think it’s disgusting?”

“Are you feeling okay? Wasn’t it obvious? I can’t wait to get home and take a shower. And we were only in there a few minutes.”

“I  . . .  I love you.”

Gil tilted his head and ventured another reach in her direction. This time she allowed his hand on her shoulder, then his arm across both shoulders.

“Good to know. I love you, too.” His voice had a question in it. He probably wondered if she needed psychiatric help.

Weren’t they a pair?

20

Ivy—1951

She didn’t expect a homemade cake or a card signed by the staff:
Best wishes on your new endeavors
. She didn’t expect a baby shower with a pile of infant items from the Montgomery Ward catalog. But Ivy did think someone might say something, some little thing.
We’ll miss you. Nice working with you. Good luck with, you know, the  . . .  um  . . .  the “in a family way” business
.

Nothing.

Girls in a family way usually disappeared for a few months to “help a sick aunt” or “recuperate from a curious illness.” Or they got married quickly and had “premature” babies. Ivy could have handled things so many different ways and avoided the discomfort of coworkers who didn’t know what to say or how to help.

Help? It was as if anyone who befriended Ivy would be in danger of catching what she had.

Even the lucid patients seemed withdrawn, skittish. Had the staff poisoned them against her, too? All except Anna.

Anna dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief all day long. Her brave smile fought valiantly but couldn’t dislodge the mask of sadness. Ivy fought back her own tears and clung to a thread of hope that their good-bye was temporary.

Ivy’s shift ended uneventfully. One final task remained. The last good-bye for room 117.

“So  . . .  ,” she said as she stood at the foot of Anna’s bed.

“So  . . .  ,” came the echo from its pillow.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to visit. Not right away, at least.”

“Oh, fiddle-dee-do on the whole silly world!”

“Anna!”

“You forget about the gossips and get on with the business of making a home for you and that baby and the baby’s father.”

Ivy sniffed back what was quickly turning into a steady stream of tears. “I’ll come see you. Just not right away.”

“So, we’d better make progress this afternoon then.”

“I didn’t plan to stay afterward to work on your story today, Anna.”

“Oh, I see. You were going to rush off to—?”

An empty apartment. An unproductive session with the help wanted ads. “I guess I could stay for a few minutes.”

“Good. There’s something I need to get off my chest.”