Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 02 - The Appropriate Way (5 page)

John offered, “I can locate the movers for her furniture.”

“Aren’t you going to ask the state’s attorney to extradite Mrs. Masters?” Sally asked.

Sheriff Woods nodded. “I’ll speak to her lawyer, first. If she hasn’t committed a crime, I can’t understand why she won’t come home. If she doesn’t return voluntarily, I will start proceedings.” He opened the cruiser’s passenger door. “Tim, could you drive. I’m exhausted.”

Sally followed Sheriff Woods to the car. “Your emotions about Tony are wearing you out.”

Sheriff Woods shook his head. “I hope I never enter the
Montgomery home again.”

After the police car left, John drove Sally back east to
Dunham Road. A freezing rain began to fall. The Honda’s windshield wipers and defrosters couldn’t keep up with the ice.

“Let’s pull off until the car warms up,” Sally said. “The defrosters will work better.”

John turned into the parking lot of the Wayne Riding Club at the corner of Dunham and Territorial Roads cattycorner across from the castle. “I’m more worried about the roads than the windshield.” He got out and scraped on the back window, then chipped away at the ice above the windshield wipers reach. He ran his glove along the wiper blade showing Sally the caked ice.

When he returned to the car, Sally said, “A country club is a great place for a Madame to contact rich clients.”

The defroster began to work, so John cautiously drove south on Dunham Road to Route 64, the main street of St. Charles. “How long did Enid live in her condo?”

“Probably since they were built. Remember the crazy clothesline from the bathroom window. The entire enclosure smelled like bleach.”

“I hate that smell. Why didn’t she use a laundry service.”

“Nothing was hanging on the line,” Sally said. “We need to find out if she did convert to an outside source for clean linens.”

Back on the road, the pavement glistened as the weather continued turning rain to ice. In town, the Honda slipped, fishtailing down the eastern hill of St. Charles’ main street. At the intersection of Routes 64 and 31, they both sighed when the car stopped in time at the light.

“Good job,” Sally said.

“You just have to drive slowly.”

“I remember getting into a crash right here with Art, Sheriff Woods,” Sally said. “A northern bound car slammed on its brakes and spin into a pick-up truck in the oncoming lane. As if in slow motion, the pick-up slid sideways, slamming into my side of the car. My glasses and the windshield were broken.”

“Were you injured?”

“The other drivers weren’t injured and one of them helped me out of the driver’s side of the car. For some reason, I waited for the tow-truck in Burger Drugs with the driver of the pick-up. They had an ice-cream counter and booths back then. When I reached to push my hair away from my face, he asked me not to move. Then he picked a sliver of glass off my cheek.”

John talked about the time required to get home with the roads the way they were. “The normal fifteen-minute ride might take an hour.”

“What time is it now?” Sally pushed the sleeve of her winter coat up to find her watch. “
Eleven thirty! I need to find an AA meeting at noon in Geneva. It’s not an open meeting.”

“I could wait in the bar. Just kidding. I’ll get groceries. How long will you be.”

“Usually not longer than an hour. It really depends on how many people are at a table and how long they need to share. St. Mark’s is on Franklin Street.”

After they arrived at the address, Sally asked John to wait. “I don’t know which door is open.” After trying two back doors and even the front door of the church, she returned to the car. “Grace is going to have my head.”

“Probably canceled because of the weather. Let’s go home and order pizza. I’m tired.”

“You’re a safe driver,” Sally said, receding into a daydream of times past. Before she lost complete consciousness of the winter scene around her, she wondered, briefly, if it were true, one of the symptoms of Alzheimer’s was a tendency to nap at every opportunity.

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January, 1958

“I see more glass,” the pick-up driver said. “Close your eyes.”

Sally heard the driver, Terry Grove, call for help from the pharmacist. Terry gently laid a piece of scotch tape along her eyebrows. He showed Sally the miniature flakes of glass. Bobby Burger, the pharmacist’s son, came over with a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass. None of the glass penetrated her skin. Instead, the shower of shards peppered her hair and face. The tow truck carried off the wrecked cars, before Art and the helpful driver deemed Sally ready to travel to the hospital. The emergency room was thankfully empty. A young doctor gave her a careful eye exam before releasing her.

Sally and Art took a taxi to the house on Dean Street. Instead of going in the front door, Sally asked Art to lift the garage door. She opened the kitchen door a crack before calling Daddy out into the garage. “I broke my glasses. I can use the old pair, until I replace them.”

“We were in an accident,” Art explained.

Sally’s father turned on the garage light. “Are you hurt?” he asked Sally and then Art. “Come on in, Marie, are there any of those Christmas cookies we can sample? Someone smashed into the kids.”

“Art, call your mother.” Mother said, before raiding the cookie jar’s holiday stash.

“I wrecked the car.” They overheard Art tell his mother. “No we’re fine. Sally’s glasses broke. “Sally, will you me drive home?” When she agreed, Art relayed the news. “No. I was not upset. We were stopped at the intersection, but two other cars could not and a pick-up hit Sally’s side of the car. Okay. Thanks, Mother.” Art sat down next to Sally at the kitchen table. His legs spread out halfway across the room. “My father’s upset. Sally told on me.” Art grinned. “I’m taking catechism lessons.”

“A lot of wars were fought over religion,” Daddy said.

“Even in this house.” Mother laughed as she refilled the glasses of cold milk.

“Terry Grove was the guy who was knocked into us. He acted like a guardian angel afterwards,” Sally said.

“He drove us to the hospital in his wreck.” Art agreed.

“And he saved my eyes,” Sally said.

Her mother stood and tipped Sally’s head back.

Art tried to reassure them. “My windshield broke. Terry Grove and Bob Burger picked all kinds of glass off her face before Terry drove us to the emergency room.”

Mother sat back down. “Sally only has one eye with enough vision to read.”

“She’s okay.” Daddy repeated, as if to himself.

They did love her. Sally munched on another cookie. When did it happen? Then she understood, this was a performance piece for a prospective suitor.

“What was the angel’s name,” Mother asked.

“Terry, Terry Grove,” Art said.

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First Thursday in January

When their Honda stopped in the driveway, Sally woke up to hear John ask. “I don’t understand why Tony Montgomery committed suicide. Tim’s been as rebuffed and none of us expect him to do away with himself.”

“Tony was high-strung. Tim’s a lot older than Tony was at the time of his death, too. I think younger people suffer more than adults. They have fewer interests, less work to do, fewer responsibilities, certainly less experience in dealing with life. Everything passes and the Lord is a real help.”

“I suppose Tony wasn’t religious.”

“You’re right. But he was a lovable scamp. Part of the motivation behind his suicide was vengeance against Jill. He probably hated her by the time he died. I remember her at the time.”

As they entered the house, Sally’s new husband struggled to hang up her coat while Ginger danced around him. The cleaning people had done their best to restore the house to a clean and orderly home after the reception. Her sister-in-law’s caterers had retrieved their serving utensils.

Sally settled down on the couch in front of the fireplace, reached forward to flick on the gas flame, and tried to feel at home. She could hear John’s cheerful scolding of Ginger. Who were his parents? How did they compare to hers? She admitted marrying a man in her late sixties left her ignorant about important details throughout fifty years in his life. John said he didn’t marry because he loved her since high-school; but what or who filled his days? When he returned rosy-cheeked from the cold she asked him, sort of. “I’ve reminisced a lot about my parents since I returned. Do you miss yours?”

He sat down and pulled his long legs up on the couch. Facing her, he scanned the open area behind the couch. Ginger leaned into the couch. John stopped petting her and pointed. “Both their hospital beds sat right there. They held hands most of the time. My bedroom television was situated against the wall of windows. They were bedridden with liver and ovarian cancer, within a week of each other. Dad called it their private falling satellite. He meant they were lucky to die together.”

“You nursed them.”

“No. We hired a male nurse to help. Dad died first. Mother said she was glad he didn’t need to live without her. She only lasted six more weeks. The doctor said they both gave up living.”

Sally stroked his toes in his heavy winter socks. “What furniture did you remove from the room when their hospital beds arrived?”

John rubbed his baldness. “A red rug, with designs. You know, from India.”

“Persian?”

“That’s it. James and Betty have the carpeting in their front room, now.” John surveyed the empty space behind the couch. “With the chairs that match this couch.”

Case closed. The news certainly explained the failed decorating scheme. “Did James and Betty relieve your vigil?”

“Sometimes.” Ginger laid her head in John’s lap, as if anticipating his sorrow. “Ginger saved my sanity.”

“I’m sure she did.” Sally examined the fire. His lonely death watch made her cry.

“Oh, don’t.” John scooped her unto his lap. “I’m happy. You’re here. We have work to do, a career in righting wrongs. I couldn’t ask for more.”

As the fire and his secure embrace comforted her, Sally’s mind returned to the days she spent as a teenager in
St. Charles.

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July, 1957

In the summer between Sally’s junior and senior year, Jill Wisnewski called early one Saturday morning. “Would you like to go horseback riding again?”

“Wear a sweater,” Sally’s mother said, as if she really cared.

Jill’s head start on riding techniques was due to a year’s riding lessons at the country club in Wayne. At the rental stables on Route 47, Jill rode a four-reined, roan horse. Sally’s white mare, Flicka, sported wide haunches. Not a pretty thing. When Sally first placed her hand on the mare’s neck, Flicka steadied her stance listening to Sally’s quiet introduction and request for permission to ride. Her father claimed genetic retention allowed Sally to copy Jill’s posting. Sally preferred the skimpy English saddle to the western saddles, which distanced her from the animal’s movements. Flicka easily accommodated herself to Sally’s gentle commands.

There was one problem.
Flicka didn’t like to be passed and Jill’s lean, high-stepping horse wasn’t happy until he was out in front of the riding group.

“Just get her attention.” Mr.
Spradlin, the stable owner, cautioned Sally. “Talk to her until her ears come up. If they’re down, someone’s gaining on her and she’s planning to kick.”

The cool summer morning promised to keep the mosquitoes manageable. They let the horses walk comfortably through the first stand of trees to get to the riding path. Sally prompted Jill to describe her latest date with Tony. The non-stop chatter might include news of Tony Montgomery’s friend, Art Woods.

Jill mentioned the movie, the hamburger, the romantic parking spot. At the most interesting point, when Tony tipped Jill’s head back for a kiss, Jill’s horse chose to speed up to be first on the trail. Adjusting her posting to the rapid trot, Sally failed to perceive the change in Flicka’s ears.

Bang!
Flicka kicked at Jill’s horse.

They both pulled up their horses.  Jill’s wooden stirrup was shattered by
Flicka’s rude kick, but Jill was not injured.

Sally never heard about the rest of
Tony’s kiss. In fact, Jill quit riding at the rental stable, with a polite excuse about her trainer arranging for her to ride free at the Wayne club. So, Sally borrowed her father’s Buick when she wanted to ride Flicka. She relished returning to the country, even for an hour among other rented horses. She felt one with the peaceful, flat open spaces of yellow grasses bordered with straight rows of pioneers’ fencing, where patches of willows pointed patiently to the refreshing brooks. Claiming ownership of earth, sun and sky, Sally found a place to call home her last summer on Dean Street to replace the quiet Rossmoor farm.

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September, 1956

During Sally’s junior high-school year, the family visited her brother at the Sacred Heart Seminary on Sunday afternoons, once a month. Just fourteen, Dick was the shortest boy in his class. Sally’s married sisters and their husbands also attended. The first grandbaby, beautiful and blonde, provided the entertainment. Bare banquet tables filled the seminary’s gym. Her mother’s apple pie, paper plates and napkins adorned their table. After her father swallowed his share of pie, he deserted the group. Cigarettes demanded his constant attention. Her sisters’ husbands didn’t last much longer.