Cut, Crop & Die (6 page)

Now she avoided my glare of reproach by watching Guy bounce around the kitchen like one of those superballs you buy for a quarter from a gumball machine. He was literally running up the walls and turning flips. Guy landed on Anya’s feet, springing up at her like a kid on a pogo stick. Obviously, he’d discovered the girl of his dreams.

“I think I’ll take him for a walk.” At the mall, she’d used her money from Sheila to buy a new pair of flip-flops. They were cute, with sequins and big silk flowers in shades of blue and green. I suspected she wanted to practice walking in them so she didn’t embarrass herself.

I hesitated. I didn’t like the thought of her being out alone.

Anya read my mind. “Mo-om. I’ll be right out in front of the house. Geez. Give me a break. I’m practically a prisoner in my own home! And look, see? Here’s my cell phone, all charged and everything!” With that she flounced out, slamming the front door behind her.

Gracie turned doleful eyes on me. I knew exactly how she felt. Her floppy ears drooped, and she set her big blocky head on her paws, watching the front door as though it were a living thing.

“Hey, girl, I guess we better get used to this, huh? Our baby is growing up.”

THAT DARLING DAUGHTER OF mine woke up the next morning loaded for bear. Anya snarled every half-mile of our journey to the Science Center. “This place is for babies. Everyone else in my school is going to camp in Wisconsin or hanging at the mall. I hate this! Hate it! I don’t want to make clay models of the solar system and electric toys using batteries. It’s stooo-pid. And you’re mean to make me go.”

Gripping the steering wheel hard so I wouldn’t be tempted to smack her, I said softly, “As long as that killer is loose, you aren’t like everyone else and neither am I.”

“Huh, you just use that as an excuse.”

I didn’t respond. She might be onto something. Hey, a crazed serial killer had a lot more elephants than “I don’t want you to go away for the summer because I’ll miss you” or “You can’t hang around the mall because you might get into mischief,” right? Wasn’t I within my parental rights to drum up whatever excuse I thought I could get away with?

At least I didn’t stoop to say, “Because I’m the MOM.” But I thought about it.

When I didn’t take the bait, Anya turned her face away from me and stared out the window. Her jaw was set, her lower lip poked out. A few minutes passed. Then, in the sweetest voice imaginable, she asked, “Can we stop at McDonald’s?”

I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. That mood swing took all of a few deep breaths. Oh, boy. And this was a preview of coming events?

We pulled into the drive-up, and Anya leaned over me to yell into the squawk box, “A sausage egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and a large orange juice.” This was the kid who seemed on the path to anorexia last month? The cashier named an amount that shocked me.

I dug around in my purse, but Anya tapped my arm. “I’ve got it, Mom. Nana gave me money for kicking around. Want anything?”

I ordered a breakfast burrito and a large coffee.

Anya seemed rather pleased with herself as she counted out the money for the cashier. Yet another sign—my baby was growing up.

After we finished our breakfast in the fast food parking lot, I dropped her off and let myself into the store. Gracie followed docilely on her lead while Guy wrapped his leash around both of us as he did laps. Taking hobbled baby steps, I moved toward the stockroom. I unhooked Gracie and plopped Guy into a doggie play pen before calling my mother-in-law to thank her again for the flowers.

Sheila brushed away my words of gratitude. “Anya’s eyes were red and crusty last time she spent the night. Cottonwood is in full bloom.”

“Yes, several of our customers are sneezing and wheezing.”

“I made an appointment for her with Andersoll, Weaver, and Sealander, the best allergy partners in town. Ralphie Andersoll and I go way back. I can’t wait for him to see my gorgeous grandbaby. God knows, I’ve been clucking over photos of his motley brood for decades. What do scrapbookers do when they have ugly kids?”

No way was I going to touch that comment.

She continued, “Unfortunately, I’m scheduled to play in a four-some for a charity match at the club the day of Anya’s appointment. You’ll have to take her to their office after science camp on Thursday,” Sheila said.

I hesitated. If these docs were the best, the office visit alone would be formidable. On the other hand, I was fortunate Sheila could wrangle a spot on their schedule for my child. I swallowed hard. “Thanks so much for making the appointment. I’ll be glad to take her.”

As if sensing my concern, she added, “They’ll send me the bill. The paperwork’s already filled out.”

A huge wave of relief swept through me. “Sheila … I can’t thank you enough.”

“If my son had been alive, or hadn’t been so dumb about whom he trusted, you wouldn’t have to worry about this.” She stopped herself.

I understood why. Neither Sheila nor I wanted to think about the financial shenanigans that ruined my late husband’s business.

The auditors were still sifting through the wreckage and trying to track down hidden accounts in the Cayman Islands.

I hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at the dogs. In one way, she was right. George’s bad judgment set in motion a string of life-changing events. But I am a grown woman, and it rankled I couldn’t provide for my daughter. I take that back—I could only provide the barest of necessities. I gritted my teeth and vowed to work harder at bringing additional business to the store.

Dodie struggled through the back door with a box of supplies left over from the ill-fated CAMP crop. She brushed aside my offer to help. The plum-colored crescents under her eyes and her brusque manner underscored her bad mood. The woman I’d always considered a pillar of strength crumbled before my eyes. Her voice was flat as she spoke. “I’ve had a dozen calls at home from women who want their money back. Despite the rain checks. Plus, the other stores want to meet with me to discuss what we need to do next. That’s code for ‘how to toss us out of the program,’ sunshine. This was all because of Yvonne Gaynor.”

Then Dodie mumbled something in Yiddish.

“Pardon?”

“From a fool one has grief,” she translated.

Now I knew exactly how upset she was. Dodie trotted out her pithy “old country” sayings when she was stressed.

I shook my head. “They can’t blame us.”

“They keep repeating the same thing over and over. Word for word. They say they were traumatized. They don’t want rain checks. They say that to try again would be disrespectful to Yvonne’s memory.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “How can they blame me?”

“Us,” I said in a moment of solidarity. If folks were parroting the same script, I’d wager someone was coaching them. And I bet I knew who—but blaming Ellen Harmon wouldn’t solve our problems.

I decided not to tell my boss about my discussion with Detweiler. Maybe, I prayed, word would come from the authorities that Yvonne reacted to a substance she hadn’t been aware she was allergic to. Surely, considering the size and acreage of the Botanical Garden, the woman could have brushed or touched a lethal plant. And certainly, with all those flowers in bloom, there had to have been a lot of bees. I prayed for something—anything—but a delivery system suggesting a deliberate desire to do her harm. And if any angels were listening, I asked them to make it abundantly clear none of us at Time in a Bottle had anything to do with Yvonne’s abrupt departure from this earth.

“More supplies still in your car?” I asked as Dodie shoved the box she’d toted in along the floor.

My boss sank into her office chair. She appeared not to have heard me. Her face was hidden in her hands; her body slumped over her desktop. Built like a Valkyrie, Dodie seemed invincible—not only because she could make two of me, but because she had a warrior’s spirit. She was not a Pollyanna or a Suzy Sunshine, but an Unsinkable Molly Brown who rolled up her sleeves and made the best of tough situations. When George died, she was the one who forced me to take charge of my life—reminding me Anya’s welfare depended on it. Through thick and thin, chipboard and vellum, Dodie stood by me. She refused to let me wallow in my misery. Once I learned she’d been through her own personal hell—the accidental death of her teenage son—I never questioned her right to tell me to “buck up.”

That strong, invincible woman was difficult to reconcile with the haggard ghost sitting in front of me. Crumpled over her workspace, she seemed eerily small and defeated.

“Dodie? I asked if you have more boxes in your car. I’ll go get them if you give me the keys.”

She turned blurry eyes to me. Their washed-out gray was as flat as a piece of Bazzill Basics cardstock. “Huh?”

I opened the mini-frig near her desk and grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper, the official store remedy for nearly all of life’s crises. “Drink this. You need caffeine. It’s going to be okay. Yeah, the women will complain, but they’ll get over it. So give them their money back. Big deal. It’s not that much, and we’ll make it up some other way.”

A meaty hand reached for the cola. Her flesh was puffy around the wedding band that cut a deep groove in her finger. “Maybe. I haven’t even checked the answering machine here at the store. Didn’t feel like it.”

“I’ll do it.” This felt odd. Usually, Dodie oriented my emotional compass due north, zero degrees past nonsense. She ran the store like a well-drilled military operation. The ding-ding-ding of an internal alarm sounded inside my head.

There was more to this than Yvonne’s death.

I pulled up a chair.

“What’s going on?”

She turned her face away.

“Hey,” I tapped her downy forearm. “I know I’m just a lowly employee. But we’ve known each other for years. You’ve had my back every step of the way. It’s my turn to return the favor. What’s wrong, Dodie?”

The words poured out. A week ago Monday, her husband Horace’s boss called him into the executive’s office and let him go from his job at RCC, a local telecommunications company. Since he was six months from retirement—and had never had a performance review below superlative—the Goldfaders were caught totally off-guard. All their benefits disappeared when the boss told Horace: “We’re letting you go.”

“Is that legal?” I asked. I did a quick calculation. This all happened before our horrible CAMP outing. I knew from experience that events tend to gang up on you. It’s not one straw that breaks the camel’s back—it’s the cumulative straws piling up and weighing you down.

“I doubt it,” Dodie said. “But in the meantime, we’re without health insurance.”

“How’s Horace taking this?”

“He’s in shock. He has all these papers but he hasn’t looked at them. Couldn’t even bring himself to open the Yellow Pages and find a lawyer. I had to do it for him. That’s not like Horace. Usually, he’s … he’s very protective of our family,” whispered Dodie.

Her voice broke as she added, “He sits in a chair all day long and stares out the window. Doesn’t even move. He devoted most of his life to that company. Knew the president and worked beside him when they started. He feels betrayed.”

She spread her fingers and examined her wedding band carefully. “You see, Horace was a company man. When they said, ‘Jump,’ he said, ‘How high?’ He gave up a lot. Time with our son, Nathan, and our daughter, Rebekkah. But he thought he’d made a good trade—security for togetherness. Now … he’s doubting everything.”

I knew how that felt. You thought you’d been making good decisions. Then, suddenly, your life is turned upside down and you question everything. “Give him time,” I said. “He’ll get over it. Horace is a good man.” He only came up to Dodie’s shoulder, but he exuded a happy masculinity that expressed itself in a can-do attitude. Horace made no secret of the fact he adored Dodie and supported her in every way possible. The few times I’d seen them together he watched his wife with misty eyes, his face bearing a nearly religious expression of approbation.

Guy broke the tension by yapping. I grabbed a hollow dog toy and dabbed a half a teaspoon of peanut butter inside. Sniffing the air cautiously, his rocket of a tail moved back and forth at the speed of light. I smeared a second toy with a lighter coat of peanut butter, in deference to Gracie’s touchy tummy, and offered her a similar distraction.

“New guest,” I said, gesturing to the Jack Russell. “His name’s Guy. He’s a wild man.”

The freedom to bring pets to work with me is a big perk of my job. Dogsitting money covers the cost of feeding Gracie and adds enough padding in my budget for Anya and me to see a movie once a month. Typically Dodie loves to give my guests a cuddle. Even though she claims no interest in owning a dog, she has a real soft spot for my charges. It’s not unusual to find her sitting in front of her computer with a canine companion on her copious lap. Today, she wasn’t one bit interested in the perky dude with the black patch around his eye. She took in my boarder with a dismissive glance.

“How do things stand now? With the lawyer that is.”

Their attorney was confident RCC would pony up a settlement. Even as Dodie shared this good news, her mouth was slack, and her expression dull. Some part of her was beaten, whipped, defeated. I opened a Diet Dr Pepper for myself and considered the situation. Maybe, I reasoned, she was genuinely worried about our store. I didn’t know how well-capitalized Time in a Bottle was. We’d never discussed it. It wasn’t really any of my business.

Maybe she was just overwhelmed. She’d grown up dirt poor. Perhaps the one-two punch of the miserable CAMP event and Horace’s firing overwhelmed her, sent her back into the memory of a childhood of poverty, and stripped her of hard-won adult responses to a financial challenge.

Something similar happened to me last fall when I was told George died owing his business partner a half a million dollars. Every step toward resolution of the problem had been a struggle, fighting my childhood demons and facing new adult tests of my mettle.

If Dodie was worried about the business, I needed to be also. When I sold my fancy house and most of our possessions, I’d banked a meager amount of savings. This job kept a roof over my head and food on our table. I asked, “How can I help?” and meant it sincerely.