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Authors: Margaret Grace
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were for Susan, not with Susan. “She’s not feeling very well right now and she needs some company.”
Maddie tapped her spoon on the rim of her cereal bowl. When she was little, she’d slap it much harder, smack on the surface of the cereal, and delight in the mess she made. Now she drummed lightly, as if she were doing some heavy thinking.
“Maybe I’ll go with you to help cheer her up. She likes me.”
“Everybody likes you, but that doesn’t mean you’re coming with me.” My voice was firm, my steps confident as I took my dishes to the sink, walking away from the subject.
I heard a sigh of defeat.
My house phone rang moments after I’d slung my large cloth purse on my shoulder, car remote at the ready. I checked the caller ID display. My best friend and sister-in-law, Beverly Gowen, Skip’s mother, was on the line. Usually, I’d drop everything to talk to Beverly, but usually I didn’t have any reason to keep something from her—like the fact that her brother’s name ended up in questionable company. I knew she’d pick up any strain in my voice, even across town over a telephone line. I’d be better prepared to talk to her once I did my so-called errands, I reasoned, while my fingers clenched around my keys.
I let the phone ring.
“Who is it, Grandma?”
“It can wait,” I said, moving Maddie toward the door and out of sight of the telephone number displayed on the small screen.
I hoped this was the only time I’d have to turn my back on Beverly.
At about nine thirty on a bright Saturday morning, we pulled up in front of Taylor’s home, a few blocks north of mine. Technically, Henry was the owner of the house; his daughter and her family had moved in when his wife died, not long after I lost Ken. Since Taylor’s parents were partners in their own law firm, they worked long hours and benefited greatly from a live-in, retired grandfather. I knew everyone was delighted with the arrangement.
As we’d gotten to know each other, Henry and I had discovered how similar the last years of our marriages had been—each caring for a terminally ill spouse whom we’d loved dearly, trying to hold the family together as well as live up to our responsibilities to our students. Henry was on the faculty of ALHS’s vocational program, teaching shop and other trades, while I ran on in my classroom about the prophetic witches in Macbeth and poor Yorick’s skull in Hamlet .
Seeing Henry this morning, in his working uniform—khakis, a heavy denim apron, and a logo-free cap over his thinning brown hair—I was almost ready to give up my quest for justice and spend my day in his workshop. I knew he could help me with a tricky dollhouse problem: constructing a swinging door between a kitchen and dining room in half-scale (one foot translated to one-half inch).
“How about I make you a mini-size bar stool like the life-size one in my den,” he’d offered once. “I have some leftover oak pieces lying around and it would be the perfect use for them. If you noticed, on the real one I shaped it so the tops of the legs form through tenons that are cut flush with the surface of the seat.”
“I’ve done that dozens of times,” I’d said, catching him believing me for an instant.
Now, as he came down the walkway to my car, I was tempted to stay and do what retired grandmothers are supposed to do.
Henry leaned into the window of my red Saturn. “You’re off? I’d hoped we could hang out, as the kids say.”
I thought of Susan’s distress, and my own need to learn more about the possible charges against my husband. What I needed was to make up a quick excuse and drive away, and spend a few hours on my own with my confusion and doubts. “I have some errands,” I said.
“Anything you need my help with?”
Something in Henry’s manner told me his offer wasn’t just formulaic. He seemed to sense that my chores didn’t involve simply picking up dry cleaning and baguettes and stopping
Maddie tapped her spoon on the rim of her cereal bowl. When she was little, she’d slap it much harder, smack on the surface of the cereal, and delight in the mess she made. Now she drummed lightly, as if she were doing some heavy thinking.
“Maybe I’ll go with you to help cheer her up. She likes me.”
“Everybody likes you, but that doesn’t mean you’re coming with me.” My voice was firm, my steps confident as I took my dishes to the sink, walking away from the subject.
I heard a sigh of defeat.
My house phone rang moments after I’d slung my large cloth purse on my shoulder, car remote at the ready. I checked the caller ID display. My best friend and sister-in-law, Beverly Gowen, Skip’s mother, was on the line. Usually, I’d drop everything to talk to Beverly, but usually I didn’t have any reason to keep something from her—like the fact that her brother’s name ended up in questionable company. I knew she’d pick up any strain in my voice, even across town over a telephone line. I’d be better prepared to talk to her once I did my so-called errands, I reasoned, while my fingers clenched around my keys.
I let the phone ring.
“Who is it, Grandma?”
“It can wait,” I said, moving Maddie toward the door and out of sight of the telephone number displayed on the small screen.
I hoped this was the only time I’d have to turn my back on Beverly.
At about nine thirty on a bright Saturday morning, we pulled up in front of Taylor’s home, a few blocks north of mine. Technically, Henry was the owner of the house; his daughter and her family had moved in when his wife died, not long after I lost Ken. Since Taylor’s parents were partners in their own law firm, they worked long hours and benefited greatly from a live-in, retired grandfather. I knew everyone was delighted with the arrangement.
As we’d gotten to know each other, Henry and I had discovered how similar the last years of our marriages had been—each caring for a terminally ill spouse whom we’d loved dearly, trying to hold the family together as well as live up to our responsibilities to our students. Henry was on the faculty of ALHS’s vocational program, teaching shop and other trades, while I ran on in my classroom about the prophetic witches in Macbeth and poor Yorick’s skull in Hamlet .
Seeing Henry this morning, in his working uniform—khakis, a heavy denim apron, and a logo-free cap over his thinning brown hair—I was almost ready to give up my quest for justice and spend my day in his workshop. I knew he could help me with a tricky dollhouse problem: constructing a swinging door between a kitchen and dining room in half-scale (one foot translated to one-half inch).
“How about I make you a mini-size bar stool like the life-size one in my den,” he’d offered once. “I have some leftover oak pieces lying around and it would be the perfect use for them. If you noticed, on the real one I shaped it so the tops of the legs form through tenons that are cut flush with the surface of the seat.”
“I’ve done that dozens of times,” I’d said, catching him believing me for an instant.
Now, as he came down the walkway to my car, I was tempted to stay and do what retired grandmothers are supposed to do.
Henry leaned into the window of my red Saturn. “You’re off? I’d hoped we could hang out, as the kids say.”
I thought of Susan’s distress, and my own need to learn more about the possible charges against my husband. What I needed was to make up a quick excuse and drive away, and spend a few hours on my own with my confusion and doubts. “I have some errands,” I said.
“Anything you need my help with?”
Something in Henry’s manner told me his offer wasn’t just formulaic. He seemed to sense that my chores didn’t involve simply picking up dry cleaning and baguettes and stopping
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