Authors: Patti Hill
Seeing Things (12 page)
“He's lazy, doesn't give a thought to his future.”
As a toddler, when Andy woke in the darkest hours of the night in an inconsolable fit of terror, caught between sleep and wakefulness, I'd learned to speak like a river of honey to soothe him. I hadn't forgotten that trick. “If boys care too much about tomorrow, the ladies snub them. They've lost their mystique.”
Andy pressed against the counter with his palms. “Look, Ma, things are different now. In middle school, getting good grades and staying out of trouble was enough. Back then, Fletch walked in sand along the beach. Whatever he did, good or bad, got washed away once he entered high school. Now he's walking in wet cement. The impressions he makes will stick forever. Every grade. Every activity. Every sport. College recruiters from the best schools will be looking at his footprints. Good grades aren't enough; he needs a résumé. But Fletcher doesn't give aâ”
“Perhaps I can add the perspective of longevity. What mattered to me when I was younger, the things that kept me up past midnight and woke me at the crack of dawn, don't matter a lick to me now. Perhaps the two of you could find something to do together.”
“Are you talking about your county-fair quilts? For goodness' sake, Ma, you're comparing apples to oranges. As the general manager of Rocky Mountain Golf, I employ more than two hundred people. I export products to thirty foreign markets. I'm not making a pretty blanket in hopes of winning a blue ribbon. Those two hundred people represent two hundred families, all looking to me for their security.”
Evidently, we were talking about Andy.
“Quilts and golf togs have one thing in common: they both burn. When they do, all that's left are satisfying relationshipsâor regrets. It's up to you.”
Andy stared into his coffee. I'd gotten him thinking. I should have kept my mouth shut, let him figure out his relationship with Fletcher, but I didn't do that. “Don't forget Fletcher is still a boyâa dear, dear boy who seems to be trying as hard as he can and still has time for his grandmother. That's an amazing young man in my book.”
“Ma, don't.”
“It's as plain as the nose on your face.”
“
Ma
. . .” Andy pushed himself from the counter. “I'll finish the pie later.”
Ma
. . .” Andy pushed himself from the counter. “I'll finish the pie later.”
When hiking, Josie and I sometimes left the established trail to bushwhack cross-country. Many times we were rewarded with a panoramic view of mountaintops or by a rare wildflower find. On rare occasions, we found ourselves dead in our tracks at the base of a stone abutment or knee deep in soppy marsh grass. At times like that, we turned back toward the trail, a bit chagrined, mildly disappointed. Something had bushwhacked this conversation. Time to backtrack to the trail. “Fletcher needs his driver's license.”
“Ah-ha! Fletcher put you up to this.”
“Nope. This is my idea. I could use his help getting around, and he could follow his interests, build his résumé. You know, walk in cement.”
Andy sat down and pulled the apple pie closer. He scraped it clean with the side of his fork. “This isn't a good time. Work is crazy. Maybe in the fall. Colorado requires parents to drive with their kids for fifty hours before they issue a license. It's all self-monitoring. The two of us will drive around a little, and then I'll sign off.”
“Maybe you would have avoided rolling the truck if we'd driven with you for fifty hours. Besides, that's fifty hours spent with Fletcher. Time with your son will be harder and harder to come by the older he gets.”
Andy's words darkened the room. “We'd kill each other.” He rose to look out the window. “This storm is nothing. If I don't make the effort . . . thanks for the pie, Ma.”
I spoke toward the door after it closed. “This may be a busy time for you, but I have nothing but time.”
Chapter 12
I held the apple pie out to Ruth. “Will this feed the Bats?”
“We'll cut the slices in two. Most of the girls don't eat that much. If Betty wants seconds, I have brownies in the freezer.”
“Is there anything else I can do? I came early to be of some use.” This was my first visit to Ruth's kitchen, a cave of a room with painted orange cabinets and varnished scalloped trim. Beyond these bold details, the dimness of the room concealed its character. I was about to suggest Ruth turn the lights on when I saw that, indeed, a glowing globe of light hung from the ceiling. This kitchen would never do for me. I'd chop my fingers clean off.
“You're kind to offer. The dust may be thick enough to write in, but honestly, I don't know or care. I prefer relaxing with a cup of coffee. We have a good half hour before the Bats start showing up.”
Ruth ushered me to the living room to sit in a chair by the window. I played with the rise and fall of its damask fabric. She returned from the kitchen with the coffee to lean back in her chair with her cup poised at her chin. I asked her, “When I met the Bats at church on Sunday, they seemed put off that I live in the new house next door. Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?”
She sipped at the coffee. “I hope you have a good friend back in Ouray, Birdie.”
“My best friend is Josie,” I said, stammering a bit. “I love and envy her at the same time. She's an amazing artist. I have so much to tell her, but she'll only talk on the telephone if her hair is on fire. I've tried and tried to convince her that short calls won't hurt her, but she won't budge on this point. If I want to talk to her, I walk the three blocks to her house, but I'm not complaining. She loves me like a sister. She'd do anything for me as long as I don't ask her to hold a phone to her ear.”
“I think I told you about Helen. She lived in the house your family razed to build their home. The older I get, the more sentimental I become. We do tend to see the past through a veil of half-truth and wishful thinking, don't we?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, only to help you understand the Bats a bit better. The four of us stood at this window and watched the bulldozer tear Helen's house down. I don't know what came over me. I tend to be an optimistic and reasonable person, but that day I cried like a baby.”
“I'm so sorry, Ruth.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Things change, and it's a good thing they do or we'd all be living in soddies. Besides, Helen hadn't lived there in years.” Ruth scratched her chin. “Let's see, there were the Clantons. They moved in when Helen's children sold the place back in '78. They had three adorable children. The middle girl sold me pot holders as fast as she could make them. Everyone on my Christmas list received pot holders that year, and oh, the colors she put together! I still have one in the back of my linen drawer. I can't bear to part with it. The next year she made tooled leather bookmarks with yarn tassels. She nearly cleaned out my bank account when she discovered I belonged to a literary club. âOh, Mrs. Spencer, these will make lovely gifts for all of your reading friends,' she said as wide-eyed as an owl. I couldn't resist her brown eyes and auburn curls, and she knew it. She was a cunning little thing. Let's see, they sold the house when Clark got a job in Indiana. I'll never forget the day he came over to say good-bye. The dear had shoveled my walks from the day he moved in, and that was a winter to remember. This strapping man had tears in his eyes as he told me Mark Patton would be shoveling my walks from then on. âAnd if he doesn't, call me in Indiana. I'll make sure it gets done right.' Mark shoveled my walks the rest of that winter, but, well, life gets busy, doesn't it?
“When the Clantons moved out, the Stones bought the place. Linda, the mother, sang like a meadowlark. Each of her three daughters delighted me in her own way, called me Grandma along with my own grandchildren, and I loved them the same. How they did squeal as they ran through the sprinklers on a summer day! Linda had a knack of knowing just when I needed a dinner invitation. They moved some years ago to be near Linda's ailing parents. That's the kind of people they were. I still hear from Linda at Christmastime. Her husband, Vick, passed away last summer. It's been tough for her.
“Then a real estate investor bought the place as a rental. Renters came and went more often than the seasons. At first, I baked a cake and trotted over there, secretly hoping another Helen might move in. One woman threatened to call the police if I showed up again. In no uncertain terms, she let me know she wasn't interested in getting to know her neighbors. She worked hard, and she didn't need touchy-feely neighbors knocking at her door. Can you imagine?”
Although I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer, I asked, “Did you approach Andy and Suzanne?”
“I did.”
“And they welcomed you?” I said, hoping.
“More than anything they seemed surprised by my sudden appearance at their door. They weren't sure they should accept my offering of muffins. It dawned on me much later they were afraid I'd laced the muffins with poison, but I supposed that's the kind of suspicion that helps this generation survive. It's all so terribly sad.”
“Andy knows better. We relied on our neighbors all through his growing-up years.” I set my coffee on the table. “I don't know what to say. I'd give my eye teeth to have a neighbor like you.”
“For the time being, you do. I don't hold a grudge against your son or his family. They've built a lovely home, and they're nice and quiet. The Bats are protective even when they have no need to be.” The doorbell rang. “Just promise me you'll give them a fair chance. They're lovely and the best entertainment a girl could ask for.”
“I can always use another friend,” I said, lonesome for Josie, the Super Seniors, and the Round Robins. And Emory.
Ruth led me to a round table she'd set up at the far end of the living room and pulled out a chair. “Sit here, Birdie, on the right side of Betty. Then you won't have to repeat everything seven times.”
Betty patted the chair to her left. “Sit here,” she said. “My hearing isn't so good on my right side.”
Ruth kissed Betty's cheek. “It's worse on your left side, dear.”
Although Betty may have suffered hearing loss, no one had trouble hearing her. “I've got retinitis pigmentosa, but these macular degenerates let me come anyway!”
When I met new people, I concentrated on connecting a name, not with a face but with hair color and style or other distinguishing feature. Betty's pewter hair rose like a mist over her scalp. Shifting the fog revealed welder-grade sunglasses. Distinctive. I wouldn't forget Betty.
Ruth put her hand on my shoulder. “Birdie, I'm going to the kitchen to slice your pie.”
Her touch and words expressed the consideration low-vision people extended to one another, a way to fill in the visual blanks. Otherwise, being the chatty kind of gal I was, I would have continued talking like she was still in the room. She deserved a kindness returned.
“I can help,” I said, rising.
She put her hands on my shoulders. “Not on your first visit. We'll make you supply the flowers, set the table, and wash out the coffeepot next time . . . but only if your ankle is better.”
“No, we won't,” bellowed Betty too close to my ear. “She's just joshing you!”
The door opened and a new voice sang out. “A newbie! Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus! One more week with these degenerates, and I was going to explode with boredom.” She introduced herself as Ruby, a fitting name for her pile of paprika curls. “Are you the gal who lives next door?”
“You'll have to watch out for that one.” As Betty spoke, I leaned against my ear as if deep in concentration. In truth, I hoped to save what hearing remained. “Ruby comes off all sweetness and light, but don't try to drive with her. As sure as I'm sitting here, you'll end up in a ditch somewhere.”
Ruth called from the kitchen. “That was me, Betty. Don't you remember the fella at the gas station? He told us to turn right when we should have turned left.”
“Don't listen to Ruth. She takes credit for everything, good or bad. Ruby dumped us in the ditch as sure as I'm sitting here.”
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