Rules of the Road (11 page)

So much for freedom.

I hung up and headed down the hall to Mrs. Gladstone’s room, knocked on the door. After a long time, she opened it.
She looked pale and shaken. I walked in. She pointed to a note on the bed.

“Apparently Elden will be joining us tomorrow,” she said heavily.

“You mean here?”

“He has a business opportunity he must discuss with me immediately.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

“The message didn’t say. I need you to get in touch with Harry Bender.”

“Me?”

She sighed. “You. I have already taken my pain medication. It’s making me very groggy.” Her old eyes looked cloudy. “Tell him that Elden is coming to St. Louis. Write down everything Harry says and we’ll talk in the morning.” Mrs. Gladstone moved slowly to the bed. “I need to lie down.”

“Well, shoot, how’s the old girl doing?”

I was sitting on my queen-size bed with the phone tucked under my chin and a legal pad in my lap having just told Harry Bender that Elden was coming to St. Louis and Mrs. Gladstone asked me to call.

“Not too great, Mr. Bender.”

“Blast, that’s a shame. That spurless son of hers isn’t going to make the situation any sweeter.”

I wrote down “spurless son—not sweeter.”

“Here’s what you got to do,” said Harry Bender in a booming Texas voice, “’cause Maddy’s got to be in bad shape if
she’s not calling herself. You’ve got to diffuse the situation because that boy’s coming to town with bad news for sure.”

I wrote down “diffuse situation—bad news for sure” and said, “Me?”

“That’s right.”

“How do I do that?”

“You tell him Maddy’s hurting too bad to see anyone and you’ll take the message.”

“But he’s not going to tell me anything.”

“That’s right. And in this situation, ignorance is golden.” I wrote down “ignorance is golden” and waited.

“’Cause, you see, old Elden’s trying to slink between two camps. You can’t trust what he’s going to say and Maddy needs to be surrounded by the truth before the lies start breaking in around her.”

“What if I goof up?”

“You’re not going to do that,” Harry Bender insisted. “You’re going to reject that thought. You’re going to tell yourself you’ve got more than enough on the ball to pull this off. All you’ve got to do, no matter what old Elden says, is to smile and tell him that you absolutely understand, but his mother can’t see anyone today.”

“But what if he gets mad at me?”

Harry Bender laughed. “You just remember, never go punching a man who’s chewing tobacco.”

“Well . . .”

“Don’t think it to death. Just approach him nice and friendly. You got any questions, call old Harry. Nighty night.”

Click.

I wrote “never punch a man who’s chewing tobacco.”

I think at the very least this should be a bumper sticker, but I’m not sure what any of this has to do with selling shoes.

The next morning I told Mrs. Gladstone everything Harry Bender said right down to the never punch a man who’s chewing tobacco part, which made her laugh out loud, even though she was hurting.

I was sitting at a table by the front of the Fichus Tree Restaurant, telling myself I had more than enough on the ball to pull this off, looking for Elden Gladstone. He was fifteen minutes late, which made me mad because for all he knew he was keeping his own mother waiting even though she was upstairs and I was her designated eater. The Fichus Tree had one of those breakfast buffets that’s so loaded with food it almost makes you forget how many people go to bed hungry. I was wearing my khaki suit that made me look older and my stacked leather shoes. Shoes are an important statement when you’re meeting another shoe person, since shoe people always look at someone from the ground up.

There was a jerk of movement and Elden Gladstone sped off the elevator, pushing through the lobby like he owned it, talking angrily on a cell phone. He gave the hostess a sneer.

“I’m meeting my mother.” He looked impatiently at the tables. Seeing him made me feel tired. “Because I
can’t,
” he barked into the phone. “It’s not going to fly!”

I stood up. “Uh, Mr. Gladstone. Your mother asked me to meet you.”

He said, “Later,” into the phone and snapped it shut. He looked at my shoes.

“I’m Jenna Boller, her . . .assistant.” Assistant sounded better than driver.

Elden reached for a handful of butter mints by the cash register and ate them all at once. He was wearing a beige floppy suit with the sleeves pushed up and a gold watch.

I steeled myself.

Smiled nice and friendly. “She’s not feeling too well, sir. She won’t be coming down for breakfast.”

He glared at me, unsure. “What’s the matter with her?”

“Her hip.”

“Again?”

I didn’t know this was an on-going problem. I nodded.

I took a deep breath for the next part. “She said you could give me any message and—”

“I don’t think so.”

I didn’t either.

“I don’t know who you are,
miss,
but I’d like to see my mother.”

“I appreciate that, sir. She just can’t see anyone today. I understand how you feel.”

Elden was six inches shorter than me and he didn’t like it. “Sit down,” he barked.

I sat. He kept standing, telling me that he’d flown in from
Dallas to see his mother and he wasn’t leaving until that happened. I smiled, explained again and again.

“It’s such a shame,” I said. “You coming all this way. She just can’t see anyone today.”

He looked at me like I was garbage. “I’m not going to let some overgrown
teenager
tell me I can’t see my mother.”

Smile.

Never kill in public.

I wanted to so bad. I looked at Elden, who was gunning for a showdown, waiting for me to lose it right there. Never punch a man who’s chewing tobacco, that’s what Harry Bender said. I knew why now. They spit it out all over you. I killed him with kindness.

“Boy, I’m sure sorry about this, sir. You’re mother’s just not able to—”

“
That’s clear!
” Elden turned on his tasseled Italian loafer. “You tell my mother we’ve got to talk. No, tell her we’re
going
to talk.”

I smiled. “I’ll tell her, sir.” I felt that adding “you ungrateful slimeball” would have been pushing it.

And with that Elden Gladstone stomped off in a stinking cloud of deceit.

Evil Retreats in the Presence of Goodness.

What a snake.

I grabbed a quick sip of my extra-thick coffee milk shake and said into the phone, “Mr. Bender, I’m from Chicago. I’m not sure what you mean about not drinking downstream from the herd.”

I could hear Harry Bender clear his throat. I’d just told him how things had gone with Elden. Mrs. Gladstone had asked me to pass it along.

“Oh, wait a minute.” I pictured horses relieving themselves in a pure mountain stream. I made a face. “I get it.”

“You’re catching on,” Harry Bender said. “Got to find us a safe place in this situation. In AA we say, ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’”

AA stands for Alcoholics Anonymous, an important organization that helps people stop drinking. “You’re in AA?”

“Twenty-three years.”

“Wow. I really respect that, sir.” We got my dad to go to one
meeting. He stormed home saying he didn’t need to be sitting around with all those losers.

“Saved my bacon, I’ll tell you. I was flat out in the gutter slurping slop. You tell Maddy I’m finding support for her out in the field. Lots of stockholders want the company to stay like it is, but Elden’s talking big money and people like that kind of talk.”

“Is she going to lose the company, sir?”

“Not while I’m breathing.”

I smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Bender.” “We’ll have us a high old time. See you in Texas.”

Mrs. Gladstone had her meetings in her hotel room over the next few days so she could stay in bed and nurse her bad hip. She insisted on getting completely dressed, right down to matching shoes, and then laid back down in bed. I mentioned that her hip seemed to be doing worse and she nearly bit my head off. She wouldn’t let anyone feel sorry for her and the minute anyone did, she’d just wave it off like no one had the right to care. She got away with this with me and three store managers.

The knock on the door sounded like someone was using a brick. Mrs. Gladstone folded those skinny arms of hers and said, “Well, here we go.”

“I’ll see who’s there, ma’am.”

“I know who’s there. If you don’t open that door, she’s just going to knock it down.”

The knock came louder.

“Coming,” I said, moving quickly to the door. I opened it
and looked down at a very attractive gray-haired woman in a white suit and a crisp yellow blouse and Spectator pumps. She patted down her straw hat with the navy ribbon and shook my hand hard. This woman had a grip.

“Alice Lovett,” she announced. “Retired shoe model.”

“Uh . . .Jenna Boller. Teen driver.”

Alice Lovett marched into the room, took one look at Mrs. Gladstone and said, “Madeline, you look like the devil himself. I’m going to feel sorry for you whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Gladstone spat.

“Tough cahoonas,” Alice Lovett spat back, took off her hat, and sat down on the chair near the bed. I figured she was pushing seventy, which is probably the only way to approach that age. She looked like an ad for an older person’s personal product, like Depends or Metamucil, that wants everyone to believe that no matter how old a human being gets they can still live a good life even if their waste disposal system goes south.

“Mrs. Lovett, can I get you something to drink?”

Her face got hard. “Everyone calls me Alice! I don’t answer to anything else!”

“Sorry . . .” I backed off to the corner.

“Madeline, what can I do for you?” Alice demanded.

Mrs. Gladstone sat there for the longest time without saying anything as Alice stared at her. Finally, “I suppose, Alice, you can listen.”

Alice kicked off her size 5
¹
⁄
₂
white and blue Spectator pumps, stuck her feet on the bed, and listened. Mrs. Gladstone told her everything.

“Your own son!” Alice said and studied Mrs. Gladstone’s wrinkled face. Mrs. Gladstone tried staring back at her like nothing was wrong, but Alice wouldn’t let her. She inched up close. “Madeline, I’ve known you for forty-one years and every one of them’s been a challenge. I’ve seen you go to work with a one hundred-and-four degree fever. I’ve watched you collapse from exhaustion after weeks of eighteen-hour days. I’ve seen you refuse to cry at your own husband’s funeral. But I want you to answer me the way it really is: Can you make it to Texas?”

Mrs. Gladstone sat as straight as she could.

“
Well, of course I can!
”

Alice yanked on her Spectators, patted down her hat. “I’d say, Madeline, that’s mostly bull. But, you know me, honey, I’ve always liked a good fight. I’m coming with you. But first Jenna and I are going to get you a wheelchair.”

Mrs. Gladstone reared up like a wild horse. “
I will not sit in one of—
”