Crestmont (17 page)

“Peg, I just turned that mangle on. Get down before you burn yourself.”

She hopped off obediently. “Mama, that washer has to run awhile. I’m going to show Gracie where Isaiah, Olivia and Samuel live all summer.” She made for the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time. Mrs. Woods smiled at her daughter and nodded for Gracie to follow.

“I got an A+, Mama!” Eleanor eagerly pulled a paper out of her pocket, unfolded it and handed it to her mother.

“An A+ in Arithmetic. How wonderful, Eleanor. That extra time on your homework paid off. I am so proud of you. You must show it to your father tonight at dinner.”

“No, he won’t care. He only cares how his students do.”

“Eleanor, darling, of course he cares.”

“Come on, Mama. Let’s go home and do your exercises.”

As they climbed the hill together, Eleanor caught red and gold leaves drifting off the trees and handed them to her mother. Once inside the Woodshed, she ran for the yardstick.

“I suppose that means we are ready, coach,” Margaret said, reluctantly moving her index and middle fingers in a walking motion on the wall.

Eleanor moved the yardstick farther up the wall. “Come on, Mama, two more inches. Now that your cast is off, we’re going to get you all the way up to the ceiling so when Christmas comes you can decorate the top of the tree.”

****

Madeleine Cunningham normally sat in her car with the motor running waiting for Gracie to arrive. Each Thursday Gracie tried to get to work a little earlier, but she never managed to find Madeleine still in the house. She looked unusually stormy today. She unloaded a large bushel of apples from the trunk of her car and plopped it into Gracie’s arms. “It’s about time,” she complained. “I have a hair appointment at nine and I don’t want to be late.” Her normally pomaded black hair had been mussed by the wind giving her a frazzled rather than disheveled air.

“What are we going to do with the apples?” Gracie asked.

“We are not doing anything. You will be making my mother’s applesauce.”

“I don’t know how…”

“Mother will show you everything,” Madeleine snapped, plunking another bushel on the ground. “Just get these apples in the kitchen.”

“Goodbye, dear. Tell Zelda I said hello,” a soothing voice called from the parlor as Gracie opened the door.

“It’s just me.” Gracie called out. “Your daughter’s left for a hair appointment.” She stored the bushels next to the back pantry and went to find Mrs. Cunningham.

“Oh, good morning Grace,” the old woman said, patting her gray hair. “Come on, fix me some toast and we’ll get to work,” she said, rising from her chair and heading toward the kitchen, fingering the furniture to guide herself.

“Grace, dear, we are making my famous applesauce today. I’ll show you exactly what to do.”

Up popped the toast. Gracie buttered it, placed it on the table and poured prune juice from the icebox.

“Ooh, smell those apples. They came down from
New York
on the train yesterday.” Mrs. Cunningham placed a finger demurely over her mouth while she chewed. “Pull out the big white enameled pot from the cabinet to the left of the sink, dear. That’s it. Now get the Foley mill behind it.”

“Shouldn’t I start peeling, Mrs. Cunningham? There are an awful lot of apples here.”

“I never peel them. Even when I could see, I didn’t peel them. ‘
Tis
my secret, you see.” She made two quick “t” sounds with her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Just wash them well, take out the core and quarter them; then into the pot with a little water they go.”

“Oh, what a relief.” Gracie chuckled. “At home, Mother used to make Lily and I do the peeling. I hated that job.” They chatted as she dropped apple quarters into the pot. Striking a match, she lit the gas burner and transferred the pot to the stove. “How much sugar?”

“None.”

“Oh, my mother always added a lot. And cinnamon too.”

“No cinnamon. It spoils the pink. Grace, my dear, for someone who never talks about her mother, you certainly remember a lot about how she made applesauce.”

Gracie flushed. “Oh, sorry…
er
…I mean, I have to ask you something. May I leave at early today so I can check my post office box? I might have a package.”

“Excellent, you opened the post office box. I’m so proud of you. There’ll be a letter from your sister any day now. Tell me more about your mother, Grace,” Mrs. Cunningham coaxed.

Eager to change the subject, Gracie said, “I’ve never heard of pink applesauce.”

“Well, cooking the apples with the peel turns the applesauce pink and those
Cortland
apples are so sweet I don’t add sugar. An old diabetic lady like me can enjoy sweet applesauce with no stern warnings from my doctor. I hear it bubbling. Turn the burner down, dear, and let’s enjoy a cup of
Postum
in the living room.”

****

“‘…refuse to tax citizens who would not use the bridge in order to pay for those who would motor across to
Philadelphia
,’ said
Camden
’s mayor in a statement yesterday. ‘So until
Philadelphia
agrees to turn the new
Delaware River
Bridge
into a toll bridge, neither
Pennsylvania
nor
New Jersey
will be able to use the largest suspension bridge in the world.’” Mrs. Cunningham’s cloudy eyes brightened with interest as Gracie read aloud.

“I wonder how long they are going to continue this nonsense.” She clicked her tongue twice in reproach. “That beautiful new bridge has stood there unused for six months.” Mrs. Cunningham sipped
Postum
from the cup she had balanced perfectly on her lap for twenty minutes.

“Six months?” Gracie asked, refolding the
Sullivan County Review
.

“Don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Well, I guess only on Thursday when I read to you, but I read a news magazine every week.”

“Grace, it is important to be informed about what is going on in state and local news. A weekly news magazine limits you to national and international concerns. There, dear. I am done.” When Gracie brought the tea tray to her, Mrs. Cunningham felt for an empty space with her left hand and placed her cup gently down at exactly the right spot.

“Now let’s finish canning the applesauce so you can leave early.”

****

Gracie turned on her heel off
Mary Avenue
on her way back to the Woodshed, pressing the package close to her chest to shield her from the wind and also to hold the letter tight against her. She wanted to run, but Mrs. Cunningham had tucked a pint jar of applesauce in each of the pockets of the coat Mrs. Woods had loaned her, and she didn’t want them to break.

The applesauce was going to be the surprise star of tomorrow night’s dinner, so she stashed it in her closet. She set the letter on the dresser and the Sears package on the bed, trying to decide which to open first. Before she could make up her mind, Peg called everyone to dinner.

“So you got a package today, Gracie.” Eleanor said, passing the rice. “We want to see it.”

“Just a minute, young lady. We are not done,” said her father sternly. “What did I say about bicycling on the driveway?”

“I have to pull over to the side if I see or hear a car coming.”

“In either…”

“In either direction, Papa. Cars, horses or bicycles. I promise. Gracie, what’s in your package?”

“Eleanor, Gracie’s mail is her private business,” her mother chastised.

Gracie smiled happily at all of them. “Actually, I’d love to show you if you have time.”

“I made Isaiah’s butterscotch pudding. Can’t we eat that first?” Peg pushed her chair back abruptly.

Eleanor popped out of her chair whistling Isaiah’s pudding song while she stacked empty dinner plates and brought the dessert from the icebox.

“Dessert is delicious, Peg,” Gracie gushed amidst appreciative murmurs from the family.

“Thank you.”

“Mama, please let me do the dishes after Gracie shows us.” Her mother nodded. Eleanor giggled as she dove with anticipation into the caned rocker in front of the fire to wait.

Running into her room, Gracie tore off her skirt and blouse and ripped open the package. She spread the long sleeved maroon wool dress with the velvet Peter Pan collar on her bed. After smoothing out some wrinkles, she tried on the dress and strode proudly out into the living room.

“Ooh… all those buttons.” Eleanor squealed, running one finger down the front from collar to hem.

“Black velvet to match the collar. That’s not all.” Gracie turned around to show them the back of the dress. See the pleat?” She playfully kicked one leg back. “I’m going to call it my maroon slash.”

Mrs. Woods gave her an impulsive hug. “It does my heart good to see you take delight in something, Gracie.”

Peg rolled her eyes and pulled her sister into the kitchen to help clean up.

Gracie excused herself to her room. How kind it was of her borrowed family to want to see her new dress.

Lily’s letter called to her from the dresser. She sat on the bed, exhaled loudly, and opened it. Lily said she was happy in her new life with George. She was going to have a baby in April. There were some details about how she had decorated their home. She didn’t understand why Gracie had left home, but now that she had, Lily hoped they could at least write. Gracie turned the short letter over twice, astounded at its brevity. There was no mention of her parents asking for her, and Lily hadn’t inquired about Gracie’s life.

With mixed emotions, she put the letter aside, intending to answer soon. At least the twinge she felt in her chest when George’s face trespassed through her brain was gone, but it hurt that her real family didn’t seem to care much about her.

****

After the Woods left to play bridge on Friday night, Gracie felt very depressed, even though her fried pork chops and Mrs. Cunningham’s applesauce were an obvious hit at the dinner table. She moped in her room, listlessly checking in the mirror to see how much her blonde hair had grown. She ought to have kept up the smart bob she had treated herself to when she first came to the
Crestmont
. She promised herself to find out more information about Zelda, the hairdresser.

To console herself, she pulled her red suitcase out from under the bed. She removed her yellow jewelry box and placed it next to her. Her friend, the old paper bag of poems, tempted her. She opened the old bag and drew out the first poem her fingers touched. The end of the poem read:

“I would hold your heart in my hands,

But I am not strong enough.

But in your hands, my Love,

My heart is secure.”

She ached for someone to trust her that much. She wondered fleetingly if PT ever thought about her, and then pitched the thought away. Grabbing her book and the Cashmere Bouquet soap she had treated herself to, she went into the bathroom.

Gracie enjoyed a luxurious bath on Friday night because only she and the girls were at home. Opening the Cashmere Bouquet, she drank in the flowery fragrance from the pink bar. Once she was in the bathtub, she relaxed in the hot water and the scent of her new soap made her feel womanly. It was a contrast to the stark smell of the Ivory soap her family always used.

Relieved that she and Mrs. Woods had worked out their differences, she hoped all of the craziness about the secret hideout was gone. It seemed that the Woods had their troubles too, but unlike her family, they talked them out.

She fell asleep, feeling a bit happier. At four in the morning, however, she awoke from an odd dream about PT. He was curled over the piano as usual, but he was playing some kind of classical music, not his usual jazz. She stood silently behind him and when he finished she asked him what he had played. Wordlessly, he turned toward her, his brown eyes tormented. His mouth was wired shut.

Philadelphia
,
Pennsylvania

September 1925

Dim street lights cast spidery fingers of purple, blue and yellow
in the oil spills on the rain-soaked street leading away from the river. The snap of windshield wipers on the cars was occasionally interrupted by orders barked in hushed voices from the approaching boats. Three men, huddled under umbrellas, leaned against the dripping black cars that were backed up close to the dock. The taller man, Morton, clicked his flashlight on and off, signaling the boats in.

Morton shoved a scrawny, agitated man who kept wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Wait in the car.
Yer
makin
’ me nervous. Besides, Pete and me got business to discuss. And shut that door nice and quiet like.”

“I hope they squabble about this toll thing a long time,” muttered Morton to his partner. “Imagine building a newfangled suspension bridge over the
Delaware River
and not
usin
’ it for months. Perfect for us, huh? While they dicker on how to pay for it, we paddle our boats over from
Camden
. No one knows; no one cares.”

Pete pushed his cap back and listened to the oars slapping the water. “Yeah, we sure are
makin
’ good dough while it lasts.”

Morton flicked a toothpick around in his mouth and changed the subject. “We made the right call
quittin
’ the beer trade, Pete. More buzz per ounce in the hard stuff means we don’t transport as much to make a buck. What’s
yer
handle on the skinny guy with the two letters instead of a real name? I thought he loaded okay last year, just not sure I trust him yet.”