Simple Gifts (19 page)

Virginia glanced at Ingrid, then away. “Ingrid tried to make him fit in, but he…just didn't. Then the outrageous scandal. I'm sorry, Marlene and Ingrid. You're good folk and you can't help what the Good Lord trusted you to raise, but the indignity was hard to live down. What other folks said hurt. We do care for our own, and we don't let the likes of Herman run loose to be a threat to our young daughters. Do we want a reminder of those terrible accusations, that Herman molested this young innocent child, every time we drive past the animal shelter? I agree with the Parish family. Let sleeping dogs lie.” She sat down.

A few days ago, I'd have cringed at her words.
Molested.
What an ugly term—yet wasn't that the common thought, even in my mind? Or it used to be.

Now the objectors just made me angry.

Virginia didn't know it, but she had just heightened my determination to fight. Herman had not run the streets or threatened young girls.

Ingrid shifted in her chair, her expression tight as a coiled snake. I patted her arm. “Do you want to leave?”

“No.” Her features set like cement.

Amazingly, I agreed with her.

Vic spoke up once in Herman's defense, but other than the brief remark, the Brewster men kept silent. Maybe Vic felt that as mayor, he shouldn't take sides, but I knew I could use his support. Both men wore a solemn demeanor. Of course, neither Joe nor Vic would fight for me now. I'd lost the right to their defense. The acting mayor took notes, but not sides, while others stood and talked, some for fifteen minutes to make a point either for Herman or against him. My nerves were raw. Perspiration stood on Ingrid's upper lip, and twice I saw her wipe tears.

By the time Vic closed the floor I was choked with anger and resentment. It took all my willpower to keep from standing up and defending my father. These people hadn't known him. They thought they had, but only Ingrid and I had really known the man with the child's mind. He'd been an integral part of our lives. And yes, more people than I'd expected had defended him and I was grateful for them, but the opposition stung—more than I had expected.

The only thing agreed upon in the three-hour meeting was the right to disagree. By the time Vic dismissed the meeting, it was well after ten o'clock, and Aunt Ingrid and I had been put through a handwringer.

There were a few well wishes as I pushed Ingrid's chair to the back of the room. Some reached out to pat her shoulder or take her hand. Others looked ashamed, or defiant, not meeting our eyes. I skimmed them with contempt.

Winston Little approached. “Evening, Marlene. Ingrid. You folks doing all right?”

Aunt Ingrid took his hand. “It's always good to know who your friends are.” She didn't bother to lower her voice, and I was proud of her. My family may be different, eccentric, but they didn't back down. Neither would I.

The hall buzzed with conversation; some weren't content to sleep on the controversy, to rethink their opinions. I spotted Vic threading his way toward me, and I picked up speed, determined to avoid him at all costs. At least for tonight. I'd had enough for one day. Ingrid's chair hit a bump and stopped. I tried to shove the wheel over the obstacle and couldn't. I shoved harder. The wheel thumped and Ingrid groaned. “Marlene!”

“Sorry, Aunt Ingrid.” Vic was closing in fast; I had to get out of here. I shoved hard, and the chair cleared a lady's handbag that had fallen into the aisle and shot forward, taking me with it. I concentrated on steering through the throng gathered inside the doorway.

“Where's the fire?” Ingrid demanded.

“No fire. I just want to get home.” She didn't have any idea how badly I wanted to get out of this place.

Between the rows of chairs and the prospect of escape, I suddenly slackened my retreat. Grayson and Ann Parish had reached the door at the same time. The older couple stood transfixed, their eyes set on me. For the longest moment of my life, we stared at each other. Ingrid, for once, kept quiet.

I didn't know how to break the silence. The words weren't there. Would they turn their backs on me?

“Marlene?” Grayson broke the awkward stillness.

“Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Parish?” Pops and Grams; they looked exactly like the people in my dreams.

His eyes softened. “Yes.”

What did one say to grandparents they'd never met, barely knew existed? The man standing before me personified my childhood dreams; distinguished, grandfatherly, with benevolent blue eyes. Eyes that now assessed me. I'd have bet those eyes twinkled on Christmas morning and birthdays. Hadn't he ever wanted to see me? What kept them away? Pride? Anger? Or other all-too-human emotions that constrained our lives.

For the life of me I couldn't look away. I drank in the sight of Pops, tucked away the memory of my grandpa in a safe place, a place where not one single soul could rob me of the joy of the moment. Ann hovered in the background, her timeless features unreadable.

Grayson extended a hand, large, soft to the touch. “You're a lovely young woman.” He turned and drew his wife to his side. She reached out, and I took her hand. It was thin. Frail. I sensed hesitancy, an almost imperceptible tremble. She was nervous. So was I.

“Ann. It's nice to meet you.”

“Yes…the same.” She glanced at her husband, then back at me. “You have Lexy's eyes. So warm and liquid.”

The observation stunned me into silence. I drew a sharp breath. “This is my Aunt Ingrid. I'm sure you've met.” Yes, they'd met. How inane of me.

Impersonal handshakes followed the introduction. History colored the exchange, making the moment even more self-conscious. I was grateful Ingrid didn't speak. I didn't want to guess what she'd have said.

Vic reached me and intervened. “Mr. and Mrs. Parish. How good to see you.”

“Dr. Brewster.”

Grayson Parish had impeccable manners. The hall behind us had grown silent, everyone engrossed in the drama that was taking place before their eyes.

The acting mayor relieved me of the wheelchair. “If you'll excuse us?”

With a courteous nod, Grayson stepped aside. As quickly as they had begun, the long overdue introductions were over. The jackhammer in my heart slowed to a more normal pace. I took a deep breath, tamping down emotions best expressed in private.

“That had to be uncomfortable.” Vic pushed Ingrid to the parking lot and I trailed behind.

“Those were my grandparents, Vic.” It seemed important he understand that.
Grandparents.
I held the word in my heart. After all these years, I had finally met them.

“I know. Are you okay?”

“I don't think so.” Turning, I glanced over my shoulder and caught one last glimpse of the Parishes walking through the parking lot.

I had my mother's eyes.

All sorts of emotions filled me: elation, resentful curiosity, longing, fear. Who were these people who looked so ordinary, so pleasant? Nice people didn't make an innocent child pay for others' mistakes.

The past flooded back. They hadn't wanted me. Still didn't. I was something they'd tried to ignore, to live down. Beth and Ingrid had raised me. They were my family.

“Want an ice cream?” Vic's inquiry pulled me back.

Suddenly I was drained, I'd emotionally hit rock bottom. All I wanted to do was go home, go to bed, and sleep for days.

“We have ice cream in the freezer.” Ingrid sniffed. “No use paying for something we have.”

Good old practical Ingrid. Yet she'd saved me from facing Vic—from what likely would have been an ordeal. On the whole, I'd had enough tribulation today. Enough for a lifetime.

“We'll pass on the ice cream.”

He didn't argue; I didn't expect him to. Some things didn't need an explanation.

Ten

V
ic helped me load Ingrid into the car. We each avoided meeting the other's eyes. Tension hung between us. The door closed behind him, and Ingrid rubbed her hands together. “Quite a meeting.”

“Too loud.” And partisan. I'd never expected it to be so divisive.

“The Parish family hates Herman.”

That was natural, but they didn't know him. I wasn't excusing his actions; only his inability to reason like an adult. “Didn't they ever ask to meet me?”

“It was a hard time for everyone, Marlene. They had their daughter to think about. No one blamed them for not wanting to take on the additional burden of raising a child.”

“But you and Beth took it on.”

Ingrid stared out the window, passing car lights illuminating her features. “I would have taken you in a second, but Beth and I knew it was better that I raise Herman and she raise you, especially under the circumstances.”

“Did the Parishes object?”

“At first they suggested abortion, but later they admitted they couldn't take a life. I made it plain that Beth and I would raise you; we would absolve them of all responsibility.”

“They could have put me up for adoption.” That was one viable solution. So many couples longed for children when they couldn't have their own. It had never occurred to me how much I owed Beth and Ingrid, which made my neglect all the more odious. “Did they consider that avenue?”

“Oh, it was mentioned, but R J told them we'd fight, and they gave in, as long as we promised to take you.”

“And they never wanted to see me?”

“No. You belonged to Herman.”

“I belonged to Lexy too.”

“They didn't see it that way.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maybe it was partly our fault. We didn't encourage them to come around. There were too many hard feelings.”

My birth. Not exactly a time to break out the gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Ingrid patted my hand. “None of this was your fault, Marlene. It was an unfortunate situation. We did the best we could.”

I leaned and kissed her cheek. “I'm just beginning to realize how much you and Beth did for me. I've not done a good job of showing my appreciation.”

She frowned. “No need to get mushy.”

No, Ingrid wouldn't get mushy. I'd never acknowledged it before, but we were more alike than I'd suspected. I noticed her eyes were shiny with tears. I'd bet mine were too.

I settled her for the night and returned to Beth's house, which was beginning to feel more familiar. Even the rocks in the living room didn't bother me anymore. I fixed a cup of tea and carried it out to the porch swing, my nightly ritual now. Lights burned in the windows of Vic's cottage. I pushed the swing with my toe, the rusty chains squeaking with each forward motion.

Vic.

He'd been pleasant tonight, but distant. A barrier stood between us. Or maybe it was always there and I hadn't noticed.

I needed to talk to him, but what could I say? I stared at the lighted windows. Was he thinking of me tonight? Were his thoughts friendly? I retreated to my earlier decision: I'd wait and let him make the first move.

My cell phone rang. Sara.

“Mom? Did you make it back okay?”

I blinked. When had my daughter ever started her conversations by asking about me? “Just fine. Why?”

“I just wondered. How are you—you're okay, aren't you?”

“Fine, sweetie. Has something happened?” Not the baby…
Please Lord, not the baby.

“No, I love you, you know. A lot.”

She clicked off after a few minutes of chatting, leaving me to stare at the phone in disbelief. Was that my daughter or an imposter? I suddenly found a wry grin forming. I'd lost control and struck her. Remembering the incident, shame filled me. It wouldn't happen again, and I needed to apologize to her.

Waiting for a phone to ring was like waiting for water to boil. You couldn't hurry it. Tuesday morning, the instrument remained silent. It wasn't like Vic to let something like my colossal deception pass without comment. He'd known I'd been lying for a couple of months. Why was he letting me stew in my own juices? To torture me?

Because he no longer gives a rat's nest.

That had to be it. He didn't care enough to challenge my deception. My perceived insight into his psyche hurt, yet I knew he had every right to ignore me. We'd had the world by the tail during our youth, but I'd destroyed our relationship when I took my life, and his, into my own hands.

How could I have ruined something so beautiful?

Water over the dam, Aunt Ingrid would say, and she would be right.

I pushed the kitchen curtain aside and stared out at the rainy day. Widening puddles stood in Ingrid's drive; street gutters overflowed with heavy runoff. Even Sara was acting weird.

“How are you mom? “
I still couldn't get it out of my head.

I let the curtain drop into place. I'd come over to see what Ingrid was doing and found her napping and the house a dank tomb. I wandered around, then decided to make a peach pie for dinner. Peach was Ingrid's favorite. I wasn't exactly Martha Stewart in the kitchen, but I could bake a decent dessert.

Flipping on the basement light, I descended the narrow steps. I'd always hated coming down here when I was a kid. Ingrid piled everything she'd accumulated the last forty years in the cellar. The place needed a good cleaning.

I located the shelf of canned peaches and started back up the stairs, pausing on the first rung. My eyes traveled the musty-smelling room—old bicycles, trunks, boxes upon stacked boxes. Eugene's workbench still sat in the corner, tools in place.

Poor Uncle Eugene. I remembered him as an odd but lovable sort. We'd play dodgeball in the driveway and occasionally I'd help with one of his carpentry projects. One Christmas we made thirty wren houses and gave them to everyone we knew. I'd bet if I looked closely, I'd still see some of those bird houses in neighbors' trees.

Ingrid always badgered him, demanding that he come to dinner, cut the grass, fill the bird feeders, weed the flower bed, oil the lawn mower, paint the shutters, fix the roof.

I knew she loved him, but Ingrid had always been Ingrid, determined to be in charge. Eugene hadn't seemed to mind…Or was that the reason for his desperate search for acceptance, why he seized upon so many women? Why he'd run off with Prue? She didn't seem any more agreeable than the wife he'd already had. Had Ingrid's constant list of chores been a way to keep her wandering husband at home, where she could keep an eye on him? I'd been too young to understand back then, and time had dulled my perception of reality.

I recalled the way he'd look at me, eyes twinkling. “Want to go get a soda pop?”

Off we'd go, with Ingrid's voice bellowing from the open window. “Eugene! The car is filthy. And I can't see a thing out of these windows.” Uncle Eugene needed two extra hands and one less prison guard.

I set the jar of peaches on the step and headed back down, eyeing one large camelback trunk I'd never noticed before. What secrets did Ingrid store in that chest?

Locating the latch, I lifted the heavy lid with an air of anticipation. Junk. I picked up stacks of moldy old clothing and set them aside. Discarded items my frugal aunt couldn't bring herself to throw away. My eye caught the corner of a cigar box, but I continued to dig deeper through old clothing, surprised at the items Ingrid had kept.

I rocked back on my heels. Beth and Ingrid had money, lots of it. They'd inherited it from their parents and handled the money judiciously. If rumor was true, the two women had more than quadrupled their funds over the years through investments and shrewd real estate transactions. They never spoke of their wealth, and if I asked, I was told it was none of my beeswax.

That's why I hadn't gone to them during the troubling years of Sara's childhood. I knew they would refuse to help, citing my impulsive marriage. I could hear Ingrid now: “Don't come to me with your problems. You made your bed, now sleep in it.”

Aunt Beth would have said, “I told you so.”

I wasn't there when Aunt Beth's will was read. I knew her holdings were tied to Ingrid's and nothing would be settled until Ingrid passed or my aunt agreed to sell off mutually owned property and allow me to settle Beth's estate promptly. She'd held out for two years, and I still didn't know why she'd suddenly grown willing to comply. The gesture was unlike her, but maybe, with Beth gone, she realized that years were passing and she wouldn't live forever.

Ingrid had been grasping, stingy, and reluctant to spend more than she needed for her own use. Beth had been the town bag lady, scuffling along in worn-out shoes, carrying her grubby tote bag. She'd been a fixture at local garage sales, rooting out the free boxes, bringing the most forlorn items home with her, whether she had a need for them or not. I'd sorted through piles of discarded bits of junk in the last weeks, all to be hauled away.

I folded the clothing and placed the items back into the trunk, willing to leave them for another day. I was about to close the lid when the cigar box caught my eye again. Digging deeper, I pulled the box from the heap. Worn, time faded. Someone had taken a crayon and drawn what looked to be a fire truck with a large bell on the side. I studied the childish rendering, my gaze shifting to the bold lettering.

HeRRmaN

Herman's earthly treasures.

Was it right of me to invade my father's private world? Would the intrusion be unfair, even callous, considering Herman's mental state?

Or was I entitled to know what went on in his mind, what he valued most here on earth. I pushed aside a stack of magazines and sat down on a rickety wooden chair. After a moment, I carefully opened the box. Inside, Herman's world quickly materialized: a shiny agate marble; a soiled and tattered piece of twine—one that undoubtedly had gone wherever Herman had traveled. I held up a yellow hair ribbon that once belonged to me. Herman brought it to me the day I started kindergarten. I remember Aunt Beth questioning him about how he'd acquired the trinket and he said he'd found it. Turned out he'd taken it from a girl at Sunday school. When asked why, he'd said, “It would look prettier on Marly.”

An eraser.

A red Duncan yo-yo.

A piece of tablet paper with a large red heart with the initials, H. L.

A baby tooth in a baggie marked
Marly.
Various pictures of me: blowing out birthday candles, tumbling with kittens. A faded picture of Butchie standing beside the large mimosa tree in Aunt Beth's front yard.

A lacy white handkerchief with “Lexy” embroidered in pink thread.
Lexy.
My mother. I held the handkerchief, my mind racing with intriguing thoughts. Had Herman had a boyish crush on Lexy? Had that fascination gotten out of hand?

In the bottom of the box I found a ring. Cheap, Cracker-Jack quality.

Sighing, I closed the lid on the box, thinking how sad it was to hold a man's entire life in my hand, yet the items here represented what God intended men to be: childlike, trusting. Loving.

Sitting there, I suddenly realized that man, when given a full IQ and educated, was sometimes more mentally challenged than Herman had been. I understood why I was so embarrassed by Herman's attempts at fatherhood—my reaction was typical enough. Even my resentment wasn't all that mysterious. I was fallible. I had hurt because Herman wasn't like everyone else.

What I couldn't explain then, but knew better now, was my love for this child-man, this man who was more like a puppy—a defenseless puppy—than a parent. Had I even once shown him compassion? Unconditional love? I couldn't recall a single instance. He hadn't required hugs and kisses; he was happiest when we played ball or roller-skated, most content when Butchie and I went to the park with him.

My whole life had been avoidance—avoidance of Herman, avoidance of difficult adult choices, like childbearing and divorce.

Avoidance of Vic.

Even after I'd fled Parnass Springs, married Noel, and had Sara, I'd still continued to run, to evade God's plans for my life. I should have known my rebellion would bring upheaval upon upheaval. I hadn't known then what God wanted of me, I'd second-guessed him, and he'd allowed me to have my way. He gave free choice, didn't he? But my choices had been far from his. And now I, and others, were paying the price.

It was high time to rethink my life. I closed the trunk and took the cigar box with me. I couldn't let it go.

It was all I had left of my father.

Rain drops spattered the windshield as I drove into the cemetery. Was there a more depressing place on earth than a cemetery on a cool rainy afternoon? I got out of the car and zipped up my slicker, then hiked across soggy ground. A north wind cut through the thin vinyl. Aunt Beth would call this weather Blackberry Winter—one of the last cool spells before warm weather came to stay. Across the fields and fencerows, blackberries would be in bloom, their white blossoms hinting of the dark, juicy fruit to come.