Simple Gifts (24 page)

“
All right.
I'll get my purse.”

When I pulled up in front of the electric company, we hadn't said two words to each other. Ingrid sat in the passenger seat, purse clutched to her middle, looking neither to the right nor left. She reminded me of a female General Patton on a field mission.

“I'll wait in the truck.” I killed the engine.

“I want you to meet Estelle.”

“Estelle who?”

“Estelle Woods, my friend. She works here.”
So. She did have a friend.

Looking like Godzilla on a bad-hair day, I got out of the truck and followed her inside. After introductions, Aunt Ingrid lingered to chat with her friend. Twenty minutes later we came out of the utility company and walked to the truck. Ingrid paused on the passenger side.

“Get in,” I called.

“I can't. You'll have to help me up.”

I'd heard of people seeing red, but I'd never experienced it until now. I could not believe my ears. She
couldn't
get in?

“Get in, Ingrid. No kidding.”

Her stance turned belligerent. “I can't. You'll have to help me.”

I got out and slammed the cab door, then marched around the front of the truck imagining steam boiling from my ears. Facing Ingrid, I put my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, you can't? You got in by yourself before.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I'm an old woman. I can't get in. You'll have to help me.”

My mind raced. What was the penalty for cold-blooded murder? Manslaughter. Temporary insanity. Sure, I could plead insanity. Maybe get off with ten years—serve on good behavior, be out by the time I was…

Whoa! Get a grip!

Marching back around the truck, I yanked open the door and searched for something—anything—to stand on. I spotted a block of wood on the floorboard.

The board landed at Ingrid's feet. She looked at it, then at me.

“Get in.”

“I can't.”

“You can!” I took her arm and nudged her onto the board. She balked, digging in her heels.

Finally I gave up and corralled her onto the running board, and then with my forehead bracing her generous backsides, I shoved. With an
oomph
, she settled, bringing her purse to her lap. She turned and met my furious look. “On the way home can we stop at the Dairy Dell for an ice cream? I'm in the mood for a Crusty Cow.”

I' ll give her a Crusty Cow…

My editorial was featured in Friday morning's paper. I read it over with a sense of prideful ownership. I had written this—every glowing word of it. I'd missed my calling. I should have been a writer instead of a nurse.

The phone was silent; no one called to compliment me on Herman's well-written and heartfelt accolade.

And Vic was still holding out.

Midmorning, Joe marched up Beth's walk, his bottom lip curled like a sausage link. What now? Everything was falling into place; one last town meeting regarding Herman and the statue, and I could go home.

The Parishes continued to garner town sympathy for their daughter while Herman's supporters wavered. Sometime during the night, I'd decided to withdraw my consent. Again. I knew my vacillating character would be perceived as true to form from the nutty Moss family, but events of the past day had made me realize that God wanted the fiasco over—-finished. Or maybe I was the one who wanted it finished. I didn't know anymore. Vic had bought the house; Ingrid was walking again. Sara had cooled, so maybe the brief time I'd been away had accomplished what I'd hoped—a stronger, more independent daughter who knew Mom was nearby, but who was capable of running her own household. In essence, my job was over.

Joe reached the porch and rapped on the screen with a rolled-up newspaper. His heightened color indicated something big was brewing. When I opened the door, he sailed by me. “Town's gone nuts.”

“Tell me something new.” I lifted the coffeepot, motioning to an empty cup.

“No time for coffee this morning. Have you seen the paper?”

“Yes. Why?” I refilled my cup and set the chrome percolator on the counter. “I only had time to read my editorial.”

“It's got the town in an uproar.”

“My editorial? What's wrong with it?” I'd thought it was a nice tribute to my father. I took the paper and skimmed the column. My original letter, which had been written the day before, prominently led the discussion, but I had missed the long column of various letters either supporting me or taking me to task over my perspective.

“
What
are they talking about?”

“Your father. Seems the Parishes, and now your editorial, have set off a real stink bomb.”

Stink bomb, indeed
. My gaze followed a line of an opposing viewpoint:

Why the very idea of putting someone like Herman Moss on display for all to see…

Why couldn't people love? Why couldn't human beings see beyond the physical and reach to the heart of a man or woman. In today's world, perfection had replaced goodness. Their attitude hurt, but I'd done the best I could. If people were offended, that was their problem. I was through. I folded the paper and laid it aside. “Talk will die down when I leave.”

“Leave?” Joe's brow jutted up. “You just got back.”

“Vic bought the house. You know that, and you never did tell me what he plans to do with it.” Putting Joe in the middle was unfair. I knew it but couldn't stop from serving my interests. “Will he live here?”

Joe turned the picture of ignorance. His face was a politically correct blank—a father's vacant look when being questioned about a son's business. “You know Vic. He makes investments. Never consults me. Just buys whenever the urge hits.”

I studied my friend, my confidant, my surrogate father—-and a terrible liar. Was he shielding me from more bad news? Reports of Vic and Lana. That was it! Vic purchased the house, and he and Lana's relationship was more serious than I'd thought—more than even Joe had thought. My brain raced with alarming possibilities.

How
dare
Vic buy Aunt Beth's house and move another woman in here!

“Marlene?” Joe's voice barely penetrated my sanctimonious fog. What a fool I'd been! I should never have signed the papers. I'd sold too quickly. I should have kept the house as investment property. Parnass Springs was small, and rental property hard to find. What had I been thinking? I could have purchased the house from the estate and increased my monthly income.

“Marlene!”

“What!”

“Sit down. You're white as a sheet.” Joe pulled me down into a kitchen chair and drew a glass of tap water. “Drink this and calm down.”

I couldn't breathe.
Air!
“I'm having a panic attack.”

He grabbed for a plastic Wal-Mart sack lying on the counter. “Here, blow in this.”

I batted the bag away. “I'm not hyperventilating—I'm having a panic attack. And you have to use a paper sack, Joe. Not plastic.”

I picked up the glass and drained it in one long swallow. I'd thought I'd reached the peak of irrationality, but obviously not. Was it possible to cancel the contract? Let Tracey know I'd changed my mind and no longer wanted to sell?

“Talk'll die down.” Joe obviously thought my distress originated from the editorial columns. Heated letters were nothing compared to the anguish coursing through my veins when I thought of Vic and Lana in Aunt Beth's house. Going about their lives, attending church on Sunday.

Dr. and Mrs. Vic Brewster.

It wasn't fair. I should be living here; I should be Mrs. Vic Brewster…

I caught my willful thoughts. I'd lost it. Somewhere between here and Glen Ellyn, I'd lost my last shred of common sense. I was freaking out over a man who at the moment had me at the top of his Judas list. A man I'd betrayed for years. I sprang up and refilled my glass with tap water and downed it. Joe watched, looking as though he might need to throw a net over me.

“It's the model upsetting you, isn't it?”

“Yes…no.” I raised my eyes. “What model?”

“Of Herman. The one the shelter is unveiling at tomorrow night's town council meeting.”

I continued to stare blankly at him.

“You know. The one the letters mentioned?”

I grabbed for the plastic Wal-Mart sack. “Missed that.”
Air!
I needed air!

“Marlene.” Joe cleared a spot on the cluttered table and unfolded the newspaper. Adjusting his glasses on the tip of his nose, he proceeded to read aloud.

“‘In deference to the growing controversy, the shelter has decided to order a replica of said statue. It is the committee's desire to allay fears of the monument's detrimental effect on Parnass Springs by showing the supreme craftsmanship and intent of proposed statue.' “

Yep. Missed that, and now Joe kindly pointed out my oversight. I slammed my hand on the table. “Heaven help us all!”

“I'm not so sure a replica isn't a good idea. Once folks see what's intended, the naysayers will back off.”

“The Parishes will never back off, and I can't say that I blame them.”

“What? I thought you'd decided to let the statue go up.”

“I had, but after I met the Parishes…” I bit my lower lip. “When I met them and saw the kind of people they were…that they honestly wanted this whole painful thing to be over…Oh Joe! I don't know what to do.”

He shook his head. “On, off. On, off. You have to make up your mind, Marlene. Either you want your father recognized or you don't.”

“Honestly? I don't know
what
I want.” I told him about finding the cigar box and Herman's personal items. “It hit me hard that I'd never done anything to acknowledge my father. That's why I wrote the editorial, not because I wanted to persuade the opposition to let the statue go up.”

“The editorial was quite touching. Herman would have been proud; I'm sure Ingrid appreciated the gesture.”

My mind traveled back to the moment I'd shown Ingrid my editorial. I watched varying emotions play across her face, then tears swell to her faded eyes. She'd handed the paper back to me with a sanctimonious, “Well, Marlene. For once you did the right thing.”

I'd felt my fingers curl in a death lock around the now rolled-up newspaper. If she'd been a fly, I'd have swatted her.

“You know Ingrid. Even if she did appreciate the effort, she'd die before she let me know it. She's funding the statue!”

Joe. Good old Joe leaned over and squeezed my shoulder. “You did a good thing, Marly. Don't let Ingrid rain on your parade.”

“That's just it. This whole statue thing has turned into a parade, and I want it stopped. I'm going home, Joe. I'm going to the town meeting tomorrow night, and I'm withdrawing my support of the statue. After that, they can do what they want. Ingrid will be upset, but she'll get over it.”

If she took to the wheelchair again, I'd have no choice but to take her to Glen Ellyn or put her in assisted living here. But I was through with Parnass Springs, through with Vic, and through with the whole mess.

Most of all, I was through with games.

And yes, if I intended to clean up my act, I had to admit to my foolish games. I was the one who lied. I needed to face Vic, and yet I'd taken the only way out I knew. The coward's way, shirking responsibility and leaving a path of devastation in my wake. No wonder the Lord remained vaguely detached from my frantic pleas for help.

Vic should have confronted me the moment my lie was exposed, declared his undying love and forgiven me in a gracious, Christlike way.

Well, isn't that what you expected, Marlene?

I should live in Aunt Beth's house.

I should be Mrs. Vic Brewster and live happily ever after.

I should know donkeys would line dance before any of the above happened. I'd sown my wild oats, and now I was stuck with nothing but runny oatmeal.

Joe might be mild-mannered, but he had mighty determination. Like father, like son. Vic had Joe's stubbornness, his resolve to face life head-on. Both shone brightly in Joe's face, and so did common sense. He never once led me wrong or gave me bad advice.

He sat me down, hands bracing my shoulders. Eyes so like Vic's pinned me to the seat. “Now you listen to me, Marlene. I haven't often been stern with you, but I am about to seriously hurt your feelings. This madness you've been carrying on year after year has to stop. You have seriously jeopardized any future you and Vic might have.”

I shrugged his hands aside. “I don't need a lecture.”

“You need a good time-out, young lady.” Joe suddenly turned into a Joe I didn't know—he'd turned into Vic. Serious, no-nonsense Vic, and I didn't like the change. I wanted my old Joe—my kind, understanding let-Marly-alone Joe. This man was anything but sympathetic to my cause. Tired lines circled his eyes, and he seemed a bit more stooped than I remembered. Joe had seen and heard it all. How weary he must be of every excuse man had invented for self-interest and pitiless misery.