Monday's Child

Monday’s Child 

Patricia Wallace 

Cemetery Dance Publications
 

Baltimore MD 

2013 

Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Wallace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

First Digital Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-442-6

Cover Artwork Copyright
©
2013 by Desert Isle Design

Digital Design by DH Digital Editions

For Drew

and

For Michael Andrew

who was born on a Sunday

Monday’s child is fair of face . . .

Thursday

One

March, 1989

Georgia Baker held the jar at eye level and carefully moved the edge of the knife along the inside surface, trying to get every last bit of peanut butter. She ran the tip under the rim and then scraped repeatedly at the bottom of the jar, making a face at the annoying sound of blade on glass.

Tiny peaks of peanut butter remained here and there; from experience she knew that these were impervious to knife or spoon, and that it was an exercise in futility to even try.

Some bright person, she thought, could make a fortune by inventing a device to get those elusive dabs.

“Or,” she said under her breath, “a not-so-bright person could have gone and bought another jar.” She tossed the empty into the trash.

She reached for a slice of wheat bread and spread what she had managed to salvage on it. The peanut butter covered all four corners of the bread, although not by much. She’d have to remember to buy smaller bread from now on.

Jill was fussy about what she ate, and she liked her peanut butter at least a quarter of an inch thick, but today this would have to do.

Which reminded her—

“Jill,” she called, raising her voice to carry down the long hallway. “Honey . . . you’re going to be late. The bus will be here any minute now.”

From somewhere in the general direction of her daughter’s bedroom a door squeaked shut, apparently in response.

No “I’m coming, Mom.”

No “Just a minute.”

For the last six months or so, Georgia had felt as if she might have become The Invisible Mom. Was she now inaudible as well?

She sighed and covered the second slice of bread with strawberry jam—there was plenty of that—and slapped the two together. She cut the sandwich diagonally, then eased it into a Baggie. After licking the jam from her fingers, she grabbed for a twist-tie.

“Morning.”

She glanced up. Dave came in buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. That done, he crossed the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and stared inside.

“You left the ‘good’ off,” she said, turning the twist-tie the requisite three times.

“Hmm?”

“The good.” At his blank look, she continued: “You know, as in ‘Good morning?’”

He frowned and half-shook his head. “We’re out of orange juice again. And eggs.”

Georgia didn’t comment. She’d scrambled the last egg for Jill, who hadn’t wanted it. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if she dug it out of the garbage? Ten seconds in the microwave and it would be as good as new.

“Not even an English muffin, I see.”

“No. Sorry.” She selected the least-bruised apple from the fruit bowl, held it under the faucet in what was probably an ineffectual attempt to rid it of pesticides, and dried it with a clean corner of the dish towel.

“You’d think that once in awhile, there’d be something to eat around here,” Dave said, and let the refrigerator door swing closed. “I mean, food essentially represents our very livelihood—”

Not yet it doesn’t, she thought, and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. Every business went through rough times to start with, and the restaurant wouldn’t always be in the red. Would it?

“—and you certainly never see butchers without meat on the table, or tailors going without clothes.”

Georgia smiled faintly. “Or candlestick makers going without candles.”

He gave her a sour look. “It’s a little early in the morning for whimsy, don’t you think?”

She didn’t, actually.

“Is there coffee at least?”

“Yes.” She inclined her head in the direction of the coffeepot as she wrapped the apple in a paper napkin to cushion it and put it in Jill’s lunchbox. “But there’s no cream—”

“You
are
going to make it to the store today, aren’t you?”

“I guess I’d better.” Add one more thing to the list of things to do after work.

He gave a nod of satisfaction. “Oh, and this is the last clean shirt I have.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” The dryer was kaput again, and the repairman couldn’t fit her in before next Wednesday. Nor could he be bribed—or at least, not at a price she could afford—so she’d had to hang the wash on the sagging clothesline in the back yard.

Naturally, she’d forgotten to bring them in. With all the foggy nights they’d been having, no doubt everything was as wet now as they had been when she’d taken them out of the washing machine.

“And Georgia?”

She heard the subtle change in the tone of his voice and looked up, her hand pausing in mid-air as she reached for the cookie jar.

“If you happen to talk to Cosgrove today, I want this inheritance thing resolved.”

“Dave—”

“No, I mean it. I know she’s your little sister and you want to be fair to her, but the old man’s will was very specific—”

“—and very unfair.”

“That’s debatable, but even so, this situation has dragged on long enough. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that we can’t collect a cent until everything’s settled. You know we need the money.”

“So does Bev . . . she’s raising Katy on her own.”

“That was her decision.”

Georgia heard the disapproval in his voice and for a second it was as though the years had slipped away and it was her father speaking:

“You’re eighteen years old, Beverly Jean, and the law says you’re an adult now, so it’s your decision to make, but if you insist on having this baby, you’re no daughter of mine.”

Of course, her father should have known that telling Beverly not to do something was the single best way of making sure she did it.

“Anyway,” Georgia said, shaking off the memory, “Mr. Cosgrove is out of town until Monday.”

“That figures. Lawyers.” Dave frowned into his mug, made a face, then crossed to the sink and poured the coffee, almost a full cup, down the drain. “Well, I’ve got to get going. I’ll probably be late again tonight, so don’t hold dinner for me.”

She started to come around the counter to give him a goodbye kiss, but he’d already turned on his heel and was gone.

A moment later she heard the front door slam, followed in short order by the sound of the Blazer’s engine starting up and then by the squeal of tires as Dave backed out of the driveway.

Georgia reached the window in time to see the tail lights flash as he slowed for the four-way stop sign on the corner.

“And you have a nice day, too,” she said.

Two

“Jill?”

Her mother’s voice came from outside her bedroom, and Jill turned quickly at the sound, hiding her hands behind her back, and curling her fingers around the smooth round shapes.

There were two raps at the door before it opened. Her mother stood framed in the doorway, the hint of a frown on her face.

“Jill, didn’t you hear me call you?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you’ve missed the bus again. That’s two times this week.”

“I’m sorry.” It was what she was expected to say, whether or not it was true.

“And why aren’t you wearing your new dress?”

“Dress?”

“Honestly, Jill . . .”

Her mother came into the room then, crossing directly to the closet. The dress was off to one side, still in the clear plastic garment bag in which it had come from the seamstress. Her mother unzipped the garment bag and slipped the dress off its hanger.

It was peach-colored, made of something called dotted swiss, with puffy little cap sleeves and a full skirt over three layers of petticoats.

The petticoats rustled, annoying her with their whispers.

She hated the dress, hated everything about it, except, of course, for the—

“Today’s the day they’re taking your school pictures, isn’t it?”

Jill felt a catch in her throat. She watched as her mother fussed with the white velvet sash and had to repress a shudder. “Yes,” she said, waiting for her mother to notice what she’d done.

“Then you should wear this.” Her mother held the dress up to the window to catch the light, and Jill saw the familiar soft look in her eyes. “You’ll be the prettiest girl in your class.”

“But . . . I’ll be late.”

“Now
you worry about being late. It’ll only take a minute for you to change. I have to drive you to school anyway, I can take a shortcut.”

Jill took a step backwards, her legs pressing against the bed. “The buttons came off.”

“What?”

“The buttons.” She held her hand out; in her palm rested the six pearl buttons which had decorated the front bodice. “They came off.”

“Oh, Jill.”

It was more a sigh than anything else.

“What is it with you and buttons? They didn’t just fall off, did they?”

“Some of them did.”

“Hmm. However it happened, there isn’t time to sew them on now.”

Jill said nothing. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her mother’s expression. She watched with mild curiosity—and relief—as her mother walked to the closet and hung up the dress.

“Come on, then, off to the car with you. And leave the buttons on the nightstand so I’ll know where to find them when I get a minute. At least you can wear the dress to Easter services.”

No!

She hadn’t spoken, but the word resounded through her head.

Her mother had already turned away.

On impulse, Jill closed her fist around the buttons. A thrill of heat surged through her fingers. When she opened her hand a moment later, what she saw made her smile.

She dropped the small misshapen lump onto the polished surface of the nightstand and followed her mother out of the room.

Three

Cheryl Appleton stood at the front of the classroom, surveying the frenzied activities of her second graders and wondering if it would be possible to find out what genius had invented the artificial “grass” used in Easter baskets.

More importantly, she wondered whether a jury of her peers would convict her for shoving about a ton of it up the inventor’s nose.

There was hardly a square inch of the room not covered with the stuff, in both green and pink. Crinkly strands of it were visible in most of the kids’ hair, and she saw a thick wad slowly drift down to the bottom of the aquarium where no doubt it would prove fatal to the few remaining fish.

Even the air was full of it, in the form of spitballs of both hues.

No question about it, she thought. The only possible verdict would be one of justifiable homicide. Arguably she might be seen as performing a service to mankind.

Enough was enough.

“Class!” She called as loudly as she could, but was drowned out by the din of excited young voices. She tried again. “Class! Children!”

At the back of the room, Mrs. Bastilla, a parent volunteer, seemed to be the only one who heard, and she held a finger to her lips to hush the children.

The children ignored both of them.

Miss Appleton opened the top desk drawer, pulled out an old-fashioned copper cowbell, and rang it vigorously, but to no avail.

A howitzer would have had a hard time being heard over the racket these kids were making.

Two of the girls looked vaguely in her direction, as if they thought maybe they should, but nineteen other precious darlings continued what they were doing, which now included stapling pink and white paper bunny ears to articles of clothing, and, quite possibly, judging from the decibel level, the skin beneath.

Some of the boys had taken to squashing the yellow marshmallow chicks and were making dying chicken sounds, which precipitated a flood of tears from the more sensitive of the girls.

Kevin—her choice as poster boy for retroactive birth control—had lined up a row of candy hummingbird eggs and was shooting them at his classmates. The projectiles missed their targets as often as not, and hit the windows like pastel-colored hail.

The school day was twenty minutes old.

Worse than that, it was only Thursday. Tomorrow, the day before Spring Vacation began, would be twice as bad, what with the Easter pageant and all. All those kids strung out on sugar and chocolate and rabid at the prospect of a week off from school . . .

Fun and games.

Miss Appleton sighed and sat at the desk, reaching for her attendance book to take the roll.

At least she could pretend to be in charge.

She had just marked Jill Baker absent when the door opened and Jill came in.

By chance, at precisely that moment, there was a marked quieting of the room, and Miss Appleton rose quickly to take advantage of it.

“All right,” she said with as much authority as she could muster on short notice. “I want you all to go back to your desks and sit
quietly
until Mrs. Bastilla and I set up the activity tables.”

Surprisingly, there were no arguments.

With an orderliness that the nuns from her own school days would have approved of, the children returned to their seats, except for Jill who approached her with a note from the office.

Miss Appleton took the note and tucked it between the pages of the attendance book to read later. “Thank you, Jill. Go and sit down, please.”

“Yes, Miss Appleton.”

She waited until Jill had taken her place and all eyes were facing front. She wasn’t sure how she’d regained control of the classroom, but since she had, she intended to make the most of it.

“While we’re setting things up
again,
I want you to take out your folders and work on your Easter cards.”

“Mine’s finished,” a voice piped up from the back of the room.

Kevin, of course. “Oh? Then you can—”

“I wrote a poem. You want me to read it?”

“That won’t be necessary.” The boy did have a knack for poetry, but some of the words he liked to rhyme weren’t fit for reading out loud.

“Miss Appleton?”

“Yes, Jill?”

“I finished mine, too,” the child said, her dark eyes serious.

Unaccountably, the hair at the nape of her neck began to prickle and she rubbed at it absently. “That’s fine. You and Kevin can have fifteen minutes of free time—” she gave Kevin a significant look “—make that
quiet
free time on the Apple.”

Kevin gave her a look back—that of a condemned man resigned to his fate—then got up and walked slowly to the computer corner where he was joined by Jill. He stood aside, for once the perfect little gentleman, as Jill booted up the computer.

The other children had already turned their attention to their Easter projects. The only sounds in the room were those of paper rustling and the clacking of the computer keyboard.

Hard to believe this was the same classroom or these the same children. Except that a number of them were sprouting bunny ears . . .

If she knew what she’d done to restore calm, she’d write it up for
California Teaching.

Or maybe
Amazing Stories.

With the children settled for the time being, Miss Appleton headed to the activity tables where Mrs. Bastilla was attempting to resurrect some of the less mangled marshmallow chicks.

“I think they’re done for,” she said gently.

“Done for,” Mrs. Bastilla, who didn’t speak much English, agreed.