Tending Roses (11 page)

“I worried about everything when Bailey was born, but with Justin, I just let things go. It’s a lot more fun,” Sandy was saying. She was pretty, a few years younger than I, with short blond hair, and a friendly personality that made you feel like you’d known her forever. I figured that made her good at teaching.

One of the ladies hanging garlands laughed. “It’s easier with the second one, isn’t it? By the time you’ve had four, you’re satisfied just to keep them all fed, diapered, and bathed. Mine were eighteen months to twenty-two months apart. It seemed like I never would get through washing diapers. Every day, another load of diapers. We had that old wringer washer, and I’d stand there and churn that thing, and churn that thing, then wring the diapers, and hang the diapers, and in the meanwhile, the children would be tearing up the house, or running in the mud hole, and here I’d go again.”

Wanda giggled along with her. “My mother used to put the babies in those long dresses, and when she had work to do in the kitchen, she’d pick up the table leg and set it down on the end of the baby’s dress. That way she’d know right where we were. Of course, she married at seventeen and had seven, so she had to do something.”

“Seven,” I breathed. “Wow.” I was thinking of how I felt half out of my mind raising one, and was trying to picture how it would be to have seven, still be in your twenties, and be living in the dark ages before wrinkle-free clothes and disposable diapers. It made my life seem like cheesecake.

The conversation went on like that for quite some time. We covered cooking, husbands, childbirth, weddings, college coursework then and now, and a touch of politics. And all the while we covered the Santa House with garlands and lights. With so many hands, it hardly seemed like work. Everyone was laughing and talking, discussing, humming Christmas songs. In spite of the cold turning fingers and toes numb, it was the best day I could remember.

We ate a potluck supper in the fellowship hall of the church, which had once been the chapel. Built of native brownstone with ancient stained-glass windows in hand-hewn frames, old candelabra chandeliers, and beaded board paneling, it was a perfect setting for a Christmas dinner. Townspeople added to our number, and the supper soon looked like a major happening in Hindsville.

It was a picture-postcard event—long tables decorated with red tablecloths and garlands, and filled with food in dishes of a hundred different shapes and colors. The room was alive with a wonderful sense of community, people laughing and talking, discussing the events in one another’s daily lives. I was struck by how well they knew each other and how fortunate they were to have that sense of belonging. Watching the old people pass Josh around, I wished Ben were there to share the evening. He would have enjoyed the food and the conversation, and he definitely would have enjoyed watching Grandma campaign for the position of Mrs. Santa Claus.

She was working the room like a professional, shaking hands, kissing babies, calling in favors, even doing a little blackmail. She hardly paused long enough to eat supper. She finished up the evening by sitting with old Oliver, so everyone could see how they looked together. Watching the two of them made me laugh. Oliver looked like a smitten fifteen-year-old boy, and Grandma looked as if she were trying to swallow a dose of castor oil. When he laid a hand on her arm, she gave him a look that could have fried an egg. He didn’t seem to care. He just smiled and chewed on the end of his unlit cigar.

By the time the evening was over, Grandma had the election in the bag. No one was surprised when she won the position of Mrs. Santa Claus by an overwhelming margin. Grandma pretended to be honored and astonished, and laying her hand on her chest in a gesture of false humility, she walked forward to accept her costume. Then she promptly sat beside me, leaving old Oliver to fall asleep in the corner.

Grandma spread the Mrs. Claus costume on the table and began to discuss how embellishments could be made. When we got home later that evening, she started her work.

Over the next two days, I received sewing lessons and was endlessly tortured over the appearance of the costume, and whether Grandma should sit next to Oliver in the Santa House or on a chair beside it so she could hand out candy canes, or perhaps old-fashioned peppermint sticks would be better, and perhaps the line of children should file by her before they went in to see Santa Claus, because . . .

Meanwhile, I was growing more immune to Grandma’s rambling and complaining speeches. Even though Ben’s three-day trip turned into a week plus three days, the time seemed to pass quickly. He was due home the day after the pageant, with a nice paycheck—enough to catch up on most of the bills, at least for another month. I still hadn’t talked to him about my occasional fantasies of a life change, but the desire for something different in our lives was becoming real in my mind.

The day of the Christmas pageant dawned sunny and pleasant for December. Grandma fretted over last-minute preparations all day, until finally it was time to get ready for the pageant. I dressed Joshua in a red snowsuit, took pictures of him in the arms of the most perfect ever Mrs. Santa Claus, and away we went. We arrived at the secret Santa rendezvous location behind the post office with no time to spare, and Grandma was hoisted onto the firetruck by three volunteer firemen. She rode next to Santa Claus and even managed to hold hands with the old coot. Oliver’s red cheeks were a perfect addition to his costume, and there was no rouge involved.

At the Santa House, Grandma sat outside the door, handing candy canes to hopeful kids and admonishing them to be good. I recognized Dell Jordan in the line and was relieved when Grandma didn’t refuse her a candy cane, mention anything about welfare, or tell her that her Christmas wishes probably wouldn’t be fulfilled. She didn’t treat the girl with any special kindness, but she wasn’t cruel either, which I knew from experience she could be. Apparently, the Christmas spirit had improved her disposition.

When the Santa line was finished and the trees were lit, everyone stood around the gazebo enjoying the lights and trays of cookies and gallons of hot spiced apple cider provided by groups of church ladies. Grandma sat near the gazebo with Joshua in her lap, amid a crowd of admirers, and I sat on a bench near the edge of the park with Sandy and her husband, Troy. Their daughter, Bailey, was playing on the ground in front of us, so bulky in her snowsuit that she could barely walk. We were laughing and talking about kids and whatnot.

“Now, our little one is a rascal.” Sandy giggled. “Bailey was so sweet and so easy, but this new one is a whole other thing. We left him home with his gramp tonight.” She glanced over her shoulder at a group of boys who were sitting on the sidewalk behind us with their plates. “Y’all quit throwing your food,” Sandy admonished them. “If you don’t want it, put it in the trash.”

The rowdy crew quieted and hunched over their plates, giggling and talking in whispers.

Sandy rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Boys! I deal with that sort of thing all day long in fourth grade.”

I glanced up just in time to see Dell Jordan walk by looking at the Christmas trees, her dark eyes alive with wonder, reflecting the twinkling lights. She dropped her gaze to the boys on the sidewalk and started to walk away.

“Smelly Delly,” one of them chanted, pitching a half-eaten cookie in her direction. The rest of them joined in instantly. “Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly . . .”

Sandy glanced at Dell as she hurried away; then she shook a stern finger at the boys. “Y’all leave Dell alone. That’s mean.”

Mean? I thought. Mean? It went beyond mean. It was unspeakably cruel. Setting my plate aside, I stood up, but Dell was already gone, rushing behind the gazebo like a deer bolting into the woods. I turned on the boys, suddenly angry. “You boys should be ashamed of yourselves. She didn’t do anything to you.”

The oldest one, who was probably about Dell’s age, rolled his eyes as if I were stupid. “Well, she does smell. It ain’t a lie. She’s got gross old clothes.”

I wanted to wring his neck in spite of his age. “She’s just a little girl.” Then I realized who I was talking to, and I sat down again. Dell was just a little girl, and they were little boys, and children could be cruel.

Sandy’s husband turned around and addressed the boys. “You boys throw your plates in the trash and go play. And don’t say those things again or I’ll tell your mamas.” They sluggishly obeyed, and when they were gone, he said, “Some of these kids around here just have so much more than others.”

“I guess so.” I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I’d lived in upper-middle-class suburbs all my life. A house and two cars for everyone. Two parents usually. Games and toys, nice yards, and nice clothes for school. Poverty and ignorance were characters we saw on TV, or sometimes passed on the highway while traveling to some vacation hideaway. They were not our neighbors. They did not have faces with soft brown eyes and downturned mouths that never smiled. . . .

Troy stood suddenly. The abruptness of his movement broke my train of thought. Looking up, I saw Grandma coming our way, her face stern, her pale blue eyes flashing with anger, her Mrs. Santa hat gone, and her wig askew. Shuffling across the grass in a hurry, she had two boys by the shirt collars. Two other boys followed meekly in her wake. She parked the boys on the sidewalk behind us, her hands retaining a shuddering grip on their collars, as if she intended to hang them right there.

“At the very least, you boys should clean up the food you have wasted.” Her voice was loud and authoritative, her face dangerously red. She glared at the youngsters, who, in turn, stared at their shoes. “And when you are in church tomorrow, ask the Lord to show you a better way to act. There are some children who do not have enough to eat, and you are throwing good food into the street.” She pitched the two of them forward with impressive strength, then grabbed the other two and forcibly added them to the pile. The four landed in a sprawl in the dry grass beside the curb.

Troy and Sandy stared at her, openmouthed.

“Grandma!” I exclaimed, looking around to see if anyone was watching. I could just imagine what the boys’ parents would think if they saw her pitching their children into the dirt.

She blinked at me, seeming surprised by the sound of my voice, then teetered backward unsteadily. Troy rushed to her side, grabbing her upper arms to steady her. With short, careful steps, he helped her to the bench.

“Sit down, Mrs. Vongortler,” he soothed, his face lined with concern. “It’s all right.”

“It isn’t,” she insisted, but the red had drained from her face, and the fervor faded from her voice. “Those boys should be ashamed and so should their parents.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked as they spilled onto her cheeks. The gnarled line of her mouth quivered with withheld emotion.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I sat beside her, feeling completely helpless.

Sandy leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to go get Dr. Schmidt?”

I shook my head, not knowing what to say. I had no idea if her behavior was typical or not. I only knew I’d never seen anything like it in the past. My helplessness reminded me of how ill prepared I was to be her caretaker.

“Grandma.” I leaned close, feeling better when she looked at me with tearful recognition. “Are you all right? Do you need Dr. Schmidt?”

“No.” Her voice was small, as if it were coming from somewhere far away.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“No.”

“Would you like cider or some water?”

“Cider.” She wiped her eyes and ran her hands self-consciously over her wig, straightening it, then looking up to see if anyone else had noticed us. “I would like to sit with the others before they wonder about me.”

“All right.” I helped her up and dabbed the moisture from her cheeks with a napkin, relieved to see her acting like herself again. I was also relieved that no one else had noticed the incident. Grandma looked embarrassed enough with just the three of us watching. I was embarrassed for her and wished Sandy and Troy weren’t there. I could tell they were wondering, just as I was, what had set Grandma off and why she’d taken the boys in hand. I wondered if she was angry over what they’d done to Dell Jordan, or because they’d wasted the food. Probably the food. She’d already made her feelings about the little Jordan girl quite clear.

As we joined the others for the last of the evening’s Christmas carols, I looked around for Dell, but she was nowhere to be found. I wanted to make sure she was all right and to let her know the boys had been reprimanded, but she was gone, so I tried to put it out of my mind. Grandma’s outburst kept replaying in my thoughts. I couldn’t even begin to guess at her motives. I never would have imagined she was capable of manhandling someone else’s children.

The truth was, we really didn’t know each other at all.

By the time we headed home, Grandma seemed to be in high spirits again. She had apparently forgotten all about the incident with the boys and was now focused on preparations for our family Christmas, which was, for me, about as unpleasant a subject as the awful event in the park.

“We should hurry home,” she said. “We have so many things to do before Christmas. Now, I don’t want one of those store-bought trees this year. We’ll go on Christmas Eve and cut a cedar from the north field, and . . .”

The rest of the way home, she talked about the family coming for Christmas, and who would stay in what room, what sheets and quilts we would use, how we would fit everyone at the table, and where she had stored the Christmas decorations in case I wanted to pull them out when we got home.

Guilt rushed over me, making me unable to discuss the plans with her. Christmas was only a week away, and I had not called my father to ask when he would arrive, or if he was coming at all. It was childish of me, I knew, but I was waiting for him to call me. Fortunately, Aunt Jeane was making arrangements with Karen and her husband, so that was out of my hands. As far as I knew, they were to arrive on December 23rd and leave four days later. It would be the longest visit to Hindsville of Karen’s adult life, and I wondered what sort of emotional blackmail Aunt Jeane had used to convince her to come. Aunt Jeane wouldn’t say.