Blue Castaway by Rod Mertes
The pungent odor and soft-looking puffs of white smoke from burning autumn leaves were permanent members on Helen Wagner’s secret list of favorite things in life. She would sit quietly on the gray concrete steps leading to the front door of their two-story house and patiently watch her father as he raked the lawn. Each blister-enhancing stroke would herd the multicolored pages of summer’s end into an ever-growing pile.
Helen loved the diverse colors of fall and wished tree leaves and all plant leaves for that matter, remained the same varied array of colors throughout the entire year.
When the pile met the worn spot on the knees of her father’s faded jeans, he’d scoop the leaves up in his hands and fill a large, silver trash can. Then he’d drag the can to the edge of the chipped, concrete curb and dump the leaves onto the street.
As her father worked, Helen would bounce a green tennis ball casually on the walk below the bottom step. She feigned indifference about the ongoing landscape activities. She took special care to project a bored appearance and only offered a weak smile each time her father glanced in her direction. However, a wild excitement and impatience grew within her, like a developing volcano about to erupt, when she watched the colossal mountain of leaves forming on the aging street.
When he completed the tedious task, Joe Wagner would always caution her to stay out of the pile,”…because cars don’t know the difference between little girls and dirty, old leaves.” When you’re seven years old and you only have a couple of hours before the leaves become ashes, a problem develops. Most parents define the condition as selective hearing. Children think of it as nonessential babbling.
As soon as the forbidding eyes and restraining voice of her father were no longer a barrier, Helen would slash her mental restraints and swing into devious action. She would tour her house and make sure her father was sufficiently engrossed in “father stuff”, like making or fixing things. Another acceptable father task was being a couch anchor. That’s how Joe defined his Saturday afternoon naps.
Once the coast was clear, Helen would leap into action. Off came her plastic frame glasses and any shoes that she might still be wearing. Then she’d bolt across the well-kept suburban lawn and belly flop into the peak of the pile. She’d worm her way to the core like a giant night crawler avoiding the light and fantasized that she was an explorer in a safe, yet still virgin territory.
After a few minutes of robust wiggling, she would surface like a swimmer coming up for air. She’d stand hastily and immediately scan the area to ensure her father hadn’t returned. Once she realized she had successfully avoided detection, she repeated the adventure and continued to do so until a deep voice yanked her back to reality.
“HELEN!!” her father would yell. “What the hell did I tell you?”
“Sorry, Daddy,” she’d reply as she swatted away incriminating debris from her collar and knotted, auburn hair.
“Since you can’t do what you’re told, then you can’t stay out here any longer. Get in the house right now, or I’ll swat the dust out of your britches!”
As she would run back to the house pretending to be afraid, she’d glance back just in time to catch her father in a private smile. A loving, warm smile. A private smile that neither ever acknowledged to the other.
Unfortunately, all of that ended nine years ago. Those past years were ones in which the Wagners were a real family that popped popcorn and made lemonade to take with them to the drive-in theatres. Years before solitude became Joe’s constant companion and sole recipient of his conversation. Years before his wife, Audrey, died a long and painfully slow death from cancer.
Jean Wagner, Helen’s older sister by two years, could never see the thrill in throwing her body into a bunch of dead leaves. She considered herself much too sophisticated to engage in such an unclean or silly activity. Eventually, the activities she did enjoy, such as putting on lipsticks and blush, lost their punch when their mother died. Jean didn’t want any special attention or sympathetic understanding from well-meaning friends and relatives. She just wanted to be left alone.
A counselor at her school noticed her withdrawal and invited Jean to her office for a “talk”. Jean showed up for the appointment with preconceived thoughts on the counselor’s dialogue. She had grown weary of “do-gooders” and waited for her counselor to make an anticipated statement, like a mountain lion waiting for its prey to make a mistake. Sure enough, the first words out of the counselor’s mouth were, “Jean, I just want you to know that I understand how you feel.”
Jean snarled and like the mountain lion, pounced on her prey. “How could you possibly understand? Are you God? Do you know my every thought? You really don’t know me at all. You have no idea what makes me laugh or cry. You don’t have a clue about what I dream at night or what I think of our baseball team. You don’t know how I feel about you and you certainly don’t know what I felt for my mother. So how in the world can you sit there, smile like an idiot and say you understand? JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! Peddle your crap to some kindergartner.”
Jean didn’t say another word to the counselor for the remainder of the session and only occasionally looked her in the eyes. The rest of the time her mind was elsewhere.
Jean mimicked many of Joe’s mannerisms. Like Joe, she maintained a firm grip on her emotions and for the most part, held everything in. She locked her feelings in a special little room in the recesses of her mind. It was a dark, lonely and cluttered room. Her feelings were tucked away so well that she formed a chilly exterior. Most people that came in contact with her were more than happy to oblige her and do exactly as she asked. They left her alone.
Helen was the most resilient of the bunch. She was devastated by the loss of her mother and sobbed for days after the funeral. She felt the gut cramping pain, loneliness and emptiness that you would expect, but she was also able to hold on to hope, something that eluded her father and sister. Deep inside, fantasy and sensitivity were still thriving, right next to romance and future elusive searches for a Mr. Right.
Her mother always told her and Jean, “Someday, when you’re older, a man will come into your lives who is very kind, loving and special. Don’t be impatient or confused. Wait until he is the right one in all the important aspects. Make sure he is an equal partner who is willing to share his life with you and trusts you without question. Make sure you both feel safe enough to share any thoughts, dreams or fears without ridicule or judgment. Never settle for anything less. In other words, make sure he is the right man for the right job! I did and I could never have been happier.”
Helen made a daily effort to be strong and supportive of her father. She could almost see his shoulders drooping from the emotional load he was carrying. She had no real concept of what it was like to lose a partner that had shared twenty years of his life.
For the most part, Helen overlooked her father’s solitude and other negative methods of coping. She threw as much as possible into cheering him up and making his load lighter. Occasionally, she would get a weak smile and gentle pat on the back, never any major breakthroughs.
Life for the surviving Wagners continued much in the same manner from day to day. Things didn’t change much for Helen until shortly after her sixteenth birthday. It was a gradual shift that had been developing and finally matured. She had grown tired of being the unappreciated clown and decided to spend more time with her diary and vivid imagination. They were always far more cooperative and understanding than people.
As Helen scratched at small ice crystals on the window of her second-floor bedroom, she saw different colors being refracted by the sunlight. She smiled and felt inspired to write. She removed a chain holding a tiny key from around her neck and unlocked her thick, white diary. She put her ballpoint pen in her mouth, removed the cap with her teeth and wrote, “Nature has officially announced the arrival of winter. For some strange reason, I’ve spent most of the day reviewing everything that has changed since mom died. Then I looked out my window and many things were answered for me. We are as sn
owflakes. We drift among other snowflakes, not really knowing where we’ll land. Sometimes during the long journey, we collide and join together or we collide and become separated again. If the light hits them just right, they glisten and everyone takes notice. Once they’re splashed with mud and lose their initial attraction, people look away. Some flakes are praised for their beauty, while others are condemned for the death and destruction they cause. Snow is different individually yet sticks together at the end of its journey. It’s cold enough now. Perhaps today it will snow. If only I were a snowflake.”
As she ended the entry, she saw her father and Jean walking up their sidewalk and approaching the front door. She turned her head to the Big Ben alarm clock on her scantly adorned dresser and realized she would soon be called upon to make her nightly appearance in the kitchen.
Helen looked back at her father once again and said with a wishful sigh, “Oh, daddy…I wish there was something I could do to make you glisten again.”
Helen fastened and locked the tarnishing gold clasp to the diary and put it gently into her mother’s cedar chest. She dreaded opening the chest because the cedar smell had long since vanished and had been replaced with an odor very similar to vomit. There were several times when she thought the smell was too overwhelming and would make her vomit. Fortunately, she never did.
She always sandwiched the diary between the afghan her mother made and a timeworn, baby blue, jigsaw puzzle box. The only written word visible on the box was the word Castaway. Every time Helen touched the puzzle box, she’d get the shakes.
Audrey Wagner began working on the puzzle about a week before she died. It had been given to her by her father just prior to his death. When Joe and the girls packed Audrey’s personal belongings, Joe became a little choked up and reflective as he held a handful of puzzle pieces. He took on a distant look and spoke slowly. “Your mother was so close to finishing this damn thing.”
The three of them stood looking at the tattered puzzle pieces joined together on a beige folding table and equally shared the disappointment. Audrey had finished enough of the puzzle for them to see what appeared to be a tropical island. They could see an old man standing on a white beach with his arm around the waist of an old woman.
There were beautiful palm trees laden with coconuts and an unusual looking tropical bird coasting overhead. A cocker spaniel was nearby, digging vigorously at something buried in the white sand.
Several yards offshore was a small, blue rowboat, drifting along the tranquil, blue ocean and seemingly headed toward land. They could see a young man wearing a white, athletic shirt, sitting squarely in the middle of the boat. He had one hand on an oar and was waving to the elderly couple on the beach with the other. When she put her face close to the puzzle and squinted, she could barely read the tiny, white letters on the bow. They were faded and were made to look as if they had experienced extensive saltwater exposure. After some effort, she was able to discern the word, “Castaway”.
After Joe dropped the pieces of the puzzle into its box, Helen was alarmed and said, “Look at your hands, daddy!! They have small cuts on the palms just like mommy’s hands did!”
They both looked at his bloody palms and then at the bloodless pieces of puzzle. It bothered Joe that there wasn’t a solitary drop of blood anywhere to be seen, on any of the pieces he was holding. He began to feel dizzy and nauseated. He was feeling too bad to deal with the blood issue anymore and was content to leave it a mystery.
“How come your hands got cut, Dad? Do we need to take you to a doctor?” asked a worried Helen.
Joe wiped forming sweat beads from his forehead with one hand and clenched his stomach with the other. He sighed softly and replied, “They probably got cut on the piece edges.”
“Where did the blood go that was on the pieces?” asked Helen.
“The puzzle is probably very old and it’s likely that the cardboard is very porous. I suppose it sucked the blood in like a new sponge. I’ve gotten worse scratches from our rose bushes, honey. My hands will be just fine.” Joe rose above his discomfort and scrutinized the puzzle suspiciously, perhaps even fearfully. He turned to Helen and said, “Promise me that you’ll never touch that puzzle again, okay, sweetheart?”
“Why?” asked Helen.
“Well, because I asked you not to. Sometimes dads get a little squirrelly about things that they just have a weird feeling about. This is one of those things. Look me in the eyes and promise you’ll never take it out of the box again. Do it as a special favor for your old dad. Okay?”
“Don’t you remember? It was the last thing mom was doing before she died. Shouldn’t we finish it for her?” suggested Helen.
“It wasn’t that important to her. Now promise me,” demanded Joe in a deeper, more serious tone.
Helen yielded and said, “I promise not to touch it if you say so.”
Joe cocked his head, raised his eyebrows and looked at Helen with some doubt about her sincerity. She had been known to say one thing to appease her parents and do another when she felt she was right.
“I said I promise not to touch it, Dad,” repeated Helen as she crossed her fingers behind her back. It was a perplexing situation to her because she had also made a secret promise to her mother. After her mother died, Helen walked to the puzzle and promised her mother’s soul that she would finish the puzzle for her. You can never renege on a promise to a dead person’s soul…especially if the dead person’s soul belongs to your mother! Surely it was an unwritten law somewhere!
When Helen heard the front door slam shut, she snapped back and carefully closed the lid to the cedar chest. She rose slowly and walked at a normal pace to her bedroom door. As she did, the first snowflakes of winter peeked through her bedroom window.
“Helen! Time for dinner. Let’s get it in gear, sweetheart,” yelled Joe in a straightforward, monotone voice.
“On my way, Dad,” she replied obediently.
Helen stood in her bedroom doorway, glanced back at the cedar chest and remembered the old promise to her mother’s soul those many years past. “I really haven’t forgotten. I promised I’d finish the puzzle and I will. So many things get in the way of remembering. A promise is a promise and no matter how long it may take, I’ll keep my promise,” stated Helen as she closed her door and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she turned her head to her bedroom and then back to the landing. She thought for a moment and said, “I’ll just do it. Sorry, Dad. My promise to mom was first and it’s first come first serve. I think that law is actually written somewhere. Besides, I can’t explain why I didn’t keep my promise to Mom, because she’s dead. You’re still alive and I know once all is said and done, you’ll understand why I couldn’t keep my promise to you.”
There were hundreds of places Helen didn’t like to go. Without any question, the kitchen ranked in the top five. The kitchen meant food. Someone had to prepare and cook the food. Not someone like Jean, who always botched the works and made green mashed potatoes. It had to be someone like Helen, who always tried to do her best, no matter what she was tasked with doing.
Cooked food meant dirty dishes and the requirement to have them cleaned. For some strange reason, every time Jean did the dishes, she was never able to get all of the grime off of them. When it came to drying them, she was never able to get all of the water off and put them away while still relatively wet. Their dishes and plastic cups would end up sticking together in the cabinets as they dried. They all had to be cleaned and dried so Helen was always the natural choice.
“Think you can manage some greaseless, baked chicken tonight, sweetheart?” asked Joe.
When Audrey was alive, Joe was never demanding about anything. He was always very easy-going. Audrey would occasionally ask what he wanted for dinner and he would always reply, “I have no preferences, honey. Whatever’s easiest for you.”
“Greaseless chicken? Hmmm, there’s only one drumstick left. How about pork chops?” replied Helen.
“Just
so long as you keep the grease to a minimum. I’ve got a little bit of an upset stomach tonight. I’m not sure if it can tolerate the added aggravation.”
Helen opened a cabinet door underneath the kitchen sink and saw something dark running sideways across the back panel. Reflexively, she grabbed a can of cleanser and fired it in the direction of the invader. Her aim was slightly off and she missed what she determined to be a cockroach. It scurried through a crack in the wall, narrowly avoiding its demise. It had become Helen’s kitchen and she prided herself on its organization and cleanliness. Insects were unacceptable and she was infuriated by the intrusion. She pictured the cockroach standing on the other side of the wall laughing at her. The cockroach was probably thinking the same thing about Helen.
She stewed momentarily over the missed kill and was annoyed that the disgusting bug was still lurking somewhere, just waiting for the second wave of attack. It was a fleeting thought and she recovered quickly. She moved on to the business at hand and hauled out a five-pound bag of potatoes. She grunted slightly as she hefted it to the counter and dumped eight small potatoes into one of the basin compartments of the double-basin, kitchen sink. She put the bag away and opened a drawer, looking for a potato peeler.
“Mind if I jump in here for a minute,?” came her father’s voice over her left shoulder.
“Jeesusss…….!!” blurted Helen.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you!” said Joe, with an innocent laugh.
Helen had indeed been startled. She was secretly satisfied to see her father smile, even if it was her expense. He rarely did that anymore. He rarely did much of anything anymore, except work.
“That’s all right, Dad. I have plenty of other clean underwear to change into!”
“I won’t be long. There wasn’t any hand soap in the bathroom so I came in here to wash my hands. Don’t let me forget to get some more when we go shopping,” said Joe.
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate it.”
Helen backed away obligingly and sat at their white, kitchen table while her dad pushed the spout over the unoccupied basin and turned on the hot water. She leaned back in the uncomfortable kitchen chair and watched as her dad lathered his hands with a pink hand soap.
Helen always admired those hands. When she was much younger, she felt secure in their sturdy grasp. She knew in her heart that nothing short of an atomic blast could break his mighty grip and allow her to fall to any harm.
The warm water splashing around the back of Joe’s hands made his thick, black hairs spin wildly in a clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise fashion. Helen saw her father’s hands, the master electrician’s hands, as two huge, prehistoric spiders fighting it out in a jungle waterfall. After the grueling confrontation, one would emerge victoriously and search out another opponent. Helen saw a straw sitting next to the sink and thought, perhaps the next challenger would be mighty python. Although the python had more strength, it would be a daunting task to avoid the poisonous bite of the spider. Whatever the outcome and whomever the victor, they would dare not challenge her father. He was a big man that looked down on mature elm trees. A man who could uproot the elm and use its roots to pick his teeth if he so desired. A man who plucked rain clouds from the sky and used them as sponges to wash his body.
Joe turned the water off, grabbed a cotton towel hanging from a metal rack attached to a wall and said, “All yours.”
Helen shelved her fascination, tiptoed back to reality and produced a huge smile. She wasn’t exactly sure why she felt like smiling. For some unknown reason, a happy feeling crept up on her and she felt good inside.
Joe finished drying his hands and glanced into the sink as he headed for the hallway leading to the living room. He stopped at the corner, turned to Helen and said, “Would you do me one more favor, sweetheart?”
“What’s that?” she inquired, still maintaining a smile.
He eyeballed the potatoes and said, “What did you have in mind for the potatoes?”
“I was going to mash them. Why?”
“That’s what I thought. Do you think you could try doing something different with them this time so we didn’t need spoons to eat them? You know what I mean. So they’re more solid and not like soup.”
Even Joe’s comment about the potatoes didn’t tarnish her smile. “I’ll give it my best shot!”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” said Joe as he resumed his journey to the living room. There was a time he would maybe kiss her on the cheek or provide a reassuring pat to the back or arm. Those gestures of affection had faded like a red drape in direct sunlight. Helen understood their absence and longed for their resurrection.
She peeled the potatoes, put them in a pot of heating water and opened the refrigerator. She took six pork chops wrapped in butcher paper from the crisper and enough salad fixings to make a robust garden salad for all of them. All she needed to complete the meal plan was a can of sweet corn. She opened the cabinet door and read the labels on the assorted cans. She read the corn label and thought, why in the world do they label it “sweet corn”. I have never in my life seen or eaten or even heard of “sour” corn.
Jean tarried in her usual hideaway until she was relatively certain that the burdensome kitchen torture was either completed or so close to completion that she wouldn’t be recruited to help. At just the right moment she popped her head around the corner and exclaimed insidiously, “Gee, Helen. Everything’s done. Why didn’t you call me for help? There’s nothing left for me to do.”
“There never is, you lazy, selfish bitch!” replied Helen angrily.
“My, we have matured, haven’t we? Does it make you feel grown-up to use curse words? Does it make you feel better? I wish Dad could have heard you just now. His sweet, innocent, little girl with the foul mouth!”
Helen responded with a disgruntled look and shouted, “DINNER’S READY!”
Jean employed an exaggerated leap backward as if sincerely startled and said, “Why are you yelling?” She saw her father coming down the hallway from the living room and put her face about one inch from Helen’s ear. She smiled and whispered, “…daddy’s little, kiss-ass bitch!”
Helen ignored her evaluation and proceeded to act in her usual obsequious style, always making sure everyone had what they needed and wanted before she joined them.
All throughout dinner, Helen noticed her father staring at her with unusually compassionate eyes. Finally, after swallowing a mouthful of lumpy mashed potatoes, she said, “Is there something on your mind, Dad?”
Joe rested his fork on his plate and while looking down at it replied, “I was just thinking that you’re really maturing. You’re looking more and more like a woman with each passing day. I found some pictures and was flipping through the photo album trying to find the best place to stick them.” Joe raised his eyes, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs. He looked at Helen and got a little misty-eyed. “I saw a picture of your mother when she was close to your age. You look so much like her. You have her soft, compassionate eyes and full lips. You even have the same curl in your hair just above your right eye. She was a very beautiful and caring woman. Just as you are a beautiful and caring woman.”
Helen converted a blank expression into a slightly red-faced half-smile. She restrained herself in front of Jean and was careful not to reveal the true joy she felt. She held the compliment close to her heart and savored the moment like a fine wine. “Thanks, Dad,” she said as she met his eyes.
“I’m somewhat surprised that boys aren’t hovering around you like bees on a hive. You’re witty, intelligent, sensitive and just as pretty as your sister. God knows, she always has some lumphead on the telephone.”
“Helen’s too weird for most boys, Dad. She’s pretty much too weird for anyone at school. Boys at school used to flirt with her all the time and ask her for her telephone number. She’d freeze, stand there like a mute and just stare at them. They thin
k she’s stuck-up or something,” stated Jean dispassionately. “When I try to give her pointers, she just sighs, looks away and ignores me. I think she’s afraid of sex so when a boy starts talking to her, she does a cut and run. She thinks the only reason boys want a girlfriend is for one thing and one thing only. I gotta tell ya, Dad, she’s actually an embarrassment to me. This one guy, Quinton, tried to kiss her at the movies when we doubled that time and she slapped him. Then she walked out of the movie and sat outside until it was over. Can you believe it? I mean, she could have handled it a hundred different ways. After all, it was just a harmless kiss. Now it’s all over school and kids are laughing at her behind her back.”
Helen glared at her sister. Jean had promised not to mention the incident to her father.
Joe felt the tension mounting between his girls and didn’t consider Helen’s reaction to be so inappropriate. He realized what Jean was doing and although he didn’t approve of her tactics, he felt she deserved to be heard.
“I don’t know that it sounds all that horrible, Jean. I would have been more disappointed if the boys at school thought of her as being ‘easy’.” Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin, put his plate in the sink and said, “I know I haven’t been the greatest father over the past few years. It’s partially because I really don’t always know the best way to deal with female issues. Hell, I haven’t even been able to deal with my own situations very well. Sometimes it is a real challenge to cope with my emotions.” He slid his chair close to Helen and sat down. “I’m probably the last one to give advice but I’ll always listen and try to help both of you in anyway I can. I’ll never give up on either of you and hope you never give up on me. I hope you girls understand that you are the most important thing in the world to me. If either of you ever need to talk about anything, I promise I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and listen,” said Joe in a kind voice.
Helen smiled and said, “I know you love us, Dad, and I appreciate the offer with all of my heart. I’m not having any problems right now, okay? I just don’t want anything to do with a boy that has a burning blaze in his eyes. I’m looking for someone with smoldering embers who will last and build up a friendship.”
“See what I mean, Dad? She’s too weird. She sounds likes she’s reading some meaningless poetry junk from a book. Nobody and I mean nobody talks like that in school!” said Jean vacantly.
Joe rested his palm on the back of Helen’s hand and said, “You’re not weird, sweetheart. You’re sensitive, have a big heart and lots of wonderful dreams.”
Jean rolled her eyes and finished the remaining tidbits of her dinner.
Helen was taken aback by her father’s sudden openness. It took her a few minutes to digest the entire conversation. She rose from her chair, put her arms around her father’s waist and gave him a firm hug. She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Thanks, Dad. I love you!”
He returned the hug and smiled. Joe pushed his chair back in and said, “I’m going to watch television. Jean, make sure you help your sister with the cleanup…and don’t give her any of your shit!”
He left the kitchen to the sound of Jean’s silverware crashing against her plate. “Make sure you help your sister,” mocked Jean. “Poor, little miss kiss-ass. Wah, wah, wah,”
Joe was only halfway down the hallway and heard her comment. He turned and marching sharply back into the kitchen, pointed his finger at Jean and said, “Knock it off. There’s no need for that and I won’t tolerate it. We have enough problems already. Let’s pull together. Enough said?”
Jean looked at him sheepishly and replied, “Yes, Dad.”
Joe turned to Helen and she also replied affirmatively. He walked back down the hall, turned on the television and sat back in his favorite recliner.
Even though he was already out of the kitchen, the mental image of her father’s finger pointing at Jean impressed her. She almost expected powerful lightning bolts to come crackling forward. She loved those powerful hands. Those safe and gentle hands.
Jean found several reasons to excuse herself from the kitchen while Helen put everything away and washed the dishes. Helen completed the nightly kitchen routine by herself, as usual, while her father dozed in his recliner. Helen never told on Jean and Jean counted on it.
The following morning, before leaving for school, the girls were met by Joe at the front door. They knew immediately that something was up because he never waited for them in the past.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you about a phone call I got from your Aunt Caroline. She told me she would be arriving at O’Hare airport tonight. We’re going to pick her up at around eight. We’ll catch a bite to eat while we’re out so there’s no need for any dinner plans. The house could use a little straightening here and there, so make that your number one priority as soon as you get home from school. Better put some fresh linens on the guest bed while you’re at it. Understood?” said Joe firmly.
“What in the world did we do to deserve a visit from Aunt Caroline?” asked Jean.
“Yeah. Why’s she coming now, Dad?” joined Helen.
“Partly to discuss your boarding arrangements when you go to live with her this summer, Jean. She’s really looking forward to it.”
Jean rolled her eyes and turned her head toward the wall. Going to live with Aunt Caroline was like signing up for a course in masochism. She turned slowly back to face Joe and said, “Dad, I really think I can make it without her.”
“We’ve discussed this beyond the point of exhaustion, Jean. There’s no way we can afford room and board at Western Illinois and we agreed long ago that it would be better to get settled before the first semester started. That will give you plenty of time to get to know the area and track down a part-time job. Caroline only lives twenty minutes from the university and I think she’s being damn generous about the whole thing,” said Joe with a deepening, more serious tone of voice.
“I understand what you’re saying and I…” started Jean.
Joe interrupted, “Jean, we’ve discussed this a thousand times. That’s nine hundred, ninety-nine times too many. I don’t want to listen to anymore of your bullshit. Enough already. Okay?”
Helen looked away from the two of them and snickered privately. She turned to Jean, offered a huge Cheshire cat smile and said, “Aunt Caroline is very sweet and thoughtful, Sis. You know in your heart that you’ll love it there!”
Joe gave Helen a disapproving look and said, “She also wants to bring us some jewelry that belonged to your mother. She feels that you girls have reached an age where you can care for it properly. A couple of pieces have been in your mother’s family for several generations.”
“What kind of jewelry?” queried Helen.
“There’s an old cameo brooch that belonged to your grandmother. I believe it was given to her when her mother died. They say some member of English royalty gave it to your great-great-great-grandmother. I don’t know how true that is because nothing was ever written down. All we have are stories that have been passed on over time. Who knows how many times the story has been modified over the years. There’s also a gold stickpin with a small diamond at the top. It was your Grandpa Kline’s. His father was a jeweler and made it for his own wedding and then gave it to your grandpa when he got married. There’s also a few odds and ends, unfortunately, I’m not certain what they are.”
“If it was Mom’s jewelry, what’s Aunt Caroline doing with it?” asked Jean.
“Your mother never actually had the jewelry in her possession. Grandma and Grandpa had the jewelry in their safety deposit box with some other stuff. When they passed away, some things were willed to your mother and others were willed to Aunt Caroline. Your mother told Caroline to hang on to it for her until she asked for it. Audrey trusted Caroline and knew she’d keep it safe and out of harm’s away until she wanted it.”
Joe hesitated, looked to Helen and said, “Aunt Caroline also had a very odd question. She asked if we
still had that old jigsaw puzzle. She was real excited when I told her we had it tucked away safely in your cedar chest.”
“What’s so special about a beat-up old puzzle? We don’t have to give it to her, do we, Dad?” said Helen anxiously as she remembered her secret promise to Audrey’s soul.
“Nah. I won’t let her take it if it means something to you, sweetheart,” said Joe as he glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late for work. Save any other questions until I get home.”
Joe kissed each of the girls goodbye and drove to the Canfield Construction site near downtown Chicago. The very lucrative contract his company had landed would guarantee Joe plenty of industrial wiring for some time to come. It wasn’t always that way in the past. Months would go by when layoffs were the norm and work the exception. There were days that Joe didn’t have enough money to put gas in his car and the family had to eat breakfast cereal for dinner. Fortunately, the family was strong enough to weather those storms and pull through.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FEEDINGS
Helen loved the diverse colors of fall and wished tree leaves and all plant leaves for that matter, remained the same varied array of colors throughout the entire year.
When the pile met the worn spot on the knees of her father’s faded jeans, he’d scoop the leaves up in his hands and fill a large, silver trash can. Then he’d drag the can to the edge of the chipped, concrete curb and dump the leaves onto the street.
As her father worked, Helen would bounce a green tennis ball casually on the walk below the bottom step. She feigned indifference about the ongoing landscape activities. She took special care to project a bored appearance and only offered a weak smile each time her father glanced in her direction. However, a wild excitement and impatience grew within her, like a developing volcano about to erupt, when she watched the colossal mountain of leaves forming on the aging street.
When he completed the tedious task, Joe Wagner would always caution her to stay out of the pile,”…because cars don’t know the difference between little girls and dirty, old leaves.” When you’re seven years old and you only have a couple of hours before the leaves become ashes, a problem develops. Most parents define the condition as selective hearing. Children think of it as nonessential babbling.
As soon as the forbidding eyes and restraining voice of her father were no longer a barrier, Helen would slash her mental restraints and swing into devious action. She would tour her house and make sure her father was sufficiently engrossed in “father stuff”, like making or fixing things. Another acceptable father task was being a couch anchor. That’s how Joe defined his Saturday afternoon naps.
Once the coast was clear, Helen would leap into action. Off came her plastic frame glasses and any shoes that she might still be wearing. Then she’d bolt across the well-kept suburban lawn and belly flop into the peak of the pile. She’d worm her way to the core like a giant night crawler avoiding the light and fantasized that she was an explorer in a safe, yet still virgin territory.
After a few minutes of robust wiggling, she would surface like a swimmer coming up for air. She’d stand hastily and immediately scan the area to ensure her father hadn’t returned. Once she realized she had successfully avoided detection, she repeated the adventure and continued to do so until a deep voice yanked her back to reality.
“HELEN!!” her father would yell. “What the hell did I tell you?”
“Sorry, Daddy,” she’d reply as she swatted away incriminating debris from her collar and knotted, auburn hair.
“Since you can’t do what you’re told, then you can’t stay out here any longer. Get in the house right now, or I’ll swat the dust out of your britches!”
As she would run back to the house pretending to be afraid, she’d glance back just in time to catch her father in a private smile. A loving, warm smile. A private smile that neither ever acknowledged to the other.
Unfortunately, all of that ended nine years ago. Those past years were ones in which the Wagners were a real family that popped popcorn and made lemonade to take with them to the drive-in theatres. Years before solitude became Joe’s constant companion and sole recipient of his conversation. Years before his wife, Audrey, died a long and painfully slow death from cancer.
Jean Wagner, Helen’s older sister by two years, could never see the thrill in throwing her body into a bunch of dead leaves. She considered herself much too sophisticated to engage in such an unclean or silly activity. Eventually, the activities she did enjoy, such as putting on lipsticks and blush, lost their punch when their mother died. Jean didn’t want any special attention or sympathetic understanding from well-meaning friends and relatives. She just wanted to be left alone.
A counselor at her school noticed her withdrawal and invited Jean to her office for a “talk”. Jean showed up for the appointment with preconceived thoughts on the counselor’s dialogue. She had grown weary of “do-gooders” and waited for her counselor to make an anticipated statement, like a mountain lion waiting for its prey to make a mistake. Sure enough, the first words out of the counselor’s mouth were, “Jean, I just want you to know that I understand how you feel.”
Jean snarled and like the mountain lion, pounced on her prey. “How could you possibly understand? Are you God? Do you know my every thought? You really don’t know me at all. You have no idea what makes me laugh or cry. You don’t have a clue about what I dream at night or what I think of our baseball team. You don’t know how I feel about you and you certainly don’t know what I felt for my mother. So how in the world can you sit there, smile like an idiot and say you understand? JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! Peddle your crap to some kindergartner.”
Jean didn’t say another word to the counselor for the remainder of the session and only occasionally looked her in the eyes. The rest of the time her mind was elsewhere.
Jean mimicked many of Joe’s mannerisms. Like Joe, she maintained a firm grip on her emotions and for the most part, held everything in. She locked her feelings in a special little room in the recesses of her mind. It was a dark, lonely and cluttered room. Her feelings were tucked away so well that she formed a chilly exterior. Most people that came in contact with her were more than happy to oblige her and do exactly as she asked. They left her alone.
Helen was the most resilient of the bunch. She was devastated by the loss of her mother and sobbed for days after the funeral. She felt the gut cramping pain, loneliness and emptiness that you would expect, but she was also able to hold on to hope, something that eluded her father and sister. Deep inside, fantasy and sensitivity were still thriving, right next to romance and future elusive searches for a Mr. Right.
Her mother always told her and Jean, “Someday, when you’re older, a man will come into your lives who is very kind, loving and special. Don’t be impatient or confused. Wait until he is the right one in all the important aspects. Make sure he is an equal partner who is willing to share his life with you and trusts you without question. Make sure you both feel safe enough to share any thoughts, dreams or fears without ridicule or judgment. Never settle for anything less. In other words, make sure he is the right man for the right job! I did and I could never have been happier.”
Helen made a daily effort to be strong and supportive of her father. She could almost see his shoulders drooping from the emotional load he was carrying. She had no real concept of what it was like to lose a partner that had shared twenty years of his life.
For the most part, Helen overlooked her father’s solitude and other negative methods of coping. She threw as much as possible into cheering him up and making his load lighter. Occasionally, she would get a weak smile and gentle pat on the back, never any major breakthroughs.
Life for the surviving Wagners continued much in the same manner from day to day. Things didn’t change much for Helen until shortly after her sixteenth birthday. It was a gradual shift that had been developing and finally matured. She had grown tired of being the unappreciated clown and decided to spend more time with her diary and vivid imagination. They were always far more cooperative and understanding than people.
As Helen scratched at small ice crystals on the window of her second-floor bedroom, she saw different colors being refracted by the sunlight. She smiled and felt inspired to write. She removed a chain holding a tiny key from around her neck and unlocked her thick, white diary. She put her ballpoint pen in her mouth, removed the cap with her teeth and wrote, “Nature has officially announced the arrival of winter. For some strange reason, I’ve spent most of the day reviewing everything that has changed since mom died. Then I looked out my window and many things were answered for me. We are as sn
As she ended the entry, she saw her father and Jean walking up their sidewalk and approaching the front door. She turned her head to the Big Ben alarm clock on her scantly adorned dresser and realized she would soon be called upon to make her nightly appearance in the kitchen.
Helen looked back at her father once again and said with a wishful sigh, “Oh, daddy…I wish there was something I could do to make you glisten again.”
Helen fastened and locked the tarnishing gold clasp to the diary and put it gently into her mother’s cedar chest. She dreaded opening the chest because the cedar smell had long since vanished and had been replaced with an odor very similar to vomit. There were several times when she thought the smell was too overwhelming and would make her vomit. Fortunately, she never did.
She always sandwiched the diary between the afghan her mother made and a timeworn, baby blue, jigsaw puzzle box. The only written word visible on the box was the word Castaway. Every time Helen touched the puzzle box, she’d get the shakes.
Audrey Wagner began working on the puzzle about a week before she died. It had been given to her by her father just prior to his death. When Joe and the girls packed Audrey’s personal belongings, Joe became a little choked up and reflective as he held a handful of puzzle pieces. He took on a distant look and spoke slowly. “Your mother was so close to finishing this damn thing.”
The three of them stood looking at the tattered puzzle pieces joined together on a beige folding table and equally shared the disappointment. Audrey had finished enough of the puzzle for them to see what appeared to be a tropical island. They could see an old man standing on a white beach with his arm around the waist of an old woman.
There were beautiful palm trees laden with coconuts and an unusual looking tropical bird coasting overhead. A cocker spaniel was nearby, digging vigorously at something buried in the white sand.
Several yards offshore was a small, blue rowboat, drifting along the tranquil, blue ocean and seemingly headed toward land. They could see a young man wearing a white, athletic shirt, sitting squarely in the middle of the boat. He had one hand on an oar and was waving to the elderly couple on the beach with the other. When she put her face close to the puzzle and squinted, she could barely read the tiny, white letters on the bow. They were faded and were made to look as if they had experienced extensive saltwater exposure. After some effort, she was able to discern the word, “Castaway”.
After Joe dropped the pieces of the puzzle into its box, Helen was alarmed and said, “Look at your hands, daddy!! They have small cuts on the palms just like mommy’s hands did!”
They both looked at his bloody palms and then at the bloodless pieces of puzzle. It bothered Joe that there wasn’t a solitary drop of blood anywhere to be seen, on any of the pieces he was holding. He began to feel dizzy and nauseated. He was feeling too bad to deal with the blood issue anymore and was content to leave it a mystery.
“How come your hands got cut, Dad? Do we need to take you to a doctor?” asked a worried Helen.
Joe wiped forming sweat beads from his forehead with one hand and clenched his stomach with the other. He sighed softly and replied, “They probably got cut on the piece edges.”
“Where did the blood go that was on the pieces?” asked Helen.
“The puzzle is probably very old and it’s likely that the cardboard is very porous. I suppose it sucked the blood in like a new sponge. I’ve gotten worse scratches from our rose bushes, honey. My hands will be just fine.” Joe rose above his discomfort and scrutinized the puzzle suspiciously, perhaps even fearfully. He turned to Helen and said, “Promise me that you’ll never touch that puzzle again, okay, sweetheart?”
“Why?” asked Helen.
“Well, because I asked you not to. Sometimes dads get a little squirrelly about things that they just have a weird feeling about. This is one of those things. Look me in the eyes and promise you’ll never take it out of the box again. Do it as a special favor for your old dad. Okay?”
“Don’t you remember? It was the last thing mom was doing before she died. Shouldn’t we finish it for her?” suggested Helen.
“It wasn’t that important to her. Now promise me,” demanded Joe in a deeper, more serious tone.
Helen yielded and said, “I promise not to touch it if you say so.”
Joe cocked his head, raised his eyebrows and looked at Helen with some doubt about her sincerity. She had been known to say one thing to appease her parents and do another when she felt she was right.
“I said I promise not to touch it, Dad,” repeated Helen as she crossed her fingers behind her back. It was a perplexing situation to her because she had also made a secret promise to her mother. After her mother died, Helen walked to the puzzle and promised her mother’s soul that she would finish the puzzle for her. You can never renege on a promise to a dead person’s soul…especially if the dead person’s soul belongs to your mother! Surely it was an unwritten law somewhere!
When Helen heard the front door slam shut, she snapped back and carefully closed the lid to the cedar chest. She rose slowly and walked at a normal pace to her bedroom door. As she did, the first snowflakes of winter peeked through her bedroom window.
“Helen! Time for dinner. Let’s get it in gear, sweetheart,” yelled Joe in a straightforward, monotone voice.
“On my way, Dad,” she replied obediently.
Helen stood in her bedroom doorway, glanced back at the cedar chest and remembered the old promise to her mother’s soul those many years past. “I really haven’t forgotten. I promised I’d finish the puzzle and I will. So many things get in the way of remembering. A promise is a promise and no matter how long it may take, I’ll keep my promise,” stated Helen as she closed her door and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she turned her head to her bedroom and then back to the landing. She thought for a moment and said, “I’ll just do it. Sorry, Dad. My promise to mom was first and it’s first come first serve. I think that law is actually written somewhere. Besides, I can’t explain why I didn’t keep my promise to Mom, because she’s dead. You’re still alive and I know once all is said and done, you’ll understand why I couldn’t keep my promise to you.”
There were hundreds of places Helen didn’t like to go. Without any question, the kitchen ranked in the top five. The kitchen meant food. Someone had to prepare and cook the food. Not someone like Jean, who always botched the works and made green mashed potatoes. It had to be someone like Helen, who always tried to do her best, no matter what she was tasked with doing.
Cooked food meant dirty dishes and the requirement to have them cleaned. For some strange reason, every time Jean did the dishes, she was never able to get all of the grime off of them. When it came to drying them, she was never able to get all of the water off and put them away while still relatively wet. Their dishes and plastic cups would end up sticking together in the cabinets as they dried. They all had to be cleaned and dried so Helen was always the natural choice.
“Think you can manage some greaseless, baked chicken tonight, sweetheart?” asked Joe.
When Audrey was alive, Joe was never demanding about anything. He was always very easy-going. Audrey would occasionally ask what he wanted for dinner and he would always reply, “I have no preferences, honey. Whatever’s easiest for you.”
“Greaseless chicken? Hmmm, there’s only one drumstick left. How about pork chops?” replied Helen.
“Just
Helen opened a cabinet door underneath the kitchen sink and saw something dark running sideways across the back panel. Reflexively, she grabbed a can of cleanser and fired it in the direction of the invader. Her aim was slightly off and she missed what she determined to be a cockroach. It scurried through a crack in the wall, narrowly avoiding its demise. It had become Helen’s kitchen and she prided herself on its organization and cleanliness. Insects were unacceptable and she was infuriated by the intrusion. She pictured the cockroach standing on the other side of the wall laughing at her. The cockroach was probably thinking the same thing about Helen.
She stewed momentarily over the missed kill and was annoyed that the disgusting bug was still lurking somewhere, just waiting for the second wave of attack. It was a fleeting thought and she recovered quickly. She moved on to the business at hand and hauled out a five-pound bag of potatoes. She grunted slightly as she hefted it to the counter and dumped eight small potatoes into one of the basin compartments of the double-basin, kitchen sink. She put the bag away and opened a drawer, looking for a potato peeler.
“Mind if I jump in here for a minute,?” came her father’s voice over her left shoulder.
“Jeesusss…….!!” blurted Helen.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you!” said Joe, with an innocent laugh.
Helen had indeed been startled. She was secretly satisfied to see her father smile, even if it was her expense. He rarely did that anymore. He rarely did much of anything anymore, except work.
“That’s all right, Dad. I have plenty of other clean underwear to change into!”
“I won’t be long. There wasn’t any hand soap in the bathroom so I came in here to wash my hands. Don’t let me forget to get some more when we go shopping,” said Joe.
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I appreciate it.”
Helen backed away obligingly and sat at their white, kitchen table while her dad pushed the spout over the unoccupied basin and turned on the hot water. She leaned back in the uncomfortable kitchen chair and watched as her dad lathered his hands with a pink hand soap.
Helen always admired those hands. When she was much younger, she felt secure in their sturdy grasp. She knew in her heart that nothing short of an atomic blast could break his mighty grip and allow her to fall to any harm.
The warm water splashing around the back of Joe’s hands made his thick, black hairs spin wildly in a clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise fashion. Helen saw her father’s hands, the master electrician’s hands, as two huge, prehistoric spiders fighting it out in a jungle waterfall. After the grueling confrontation, one would emerge victoriously and search out another opponent. Helen saw a straw sitting next to the sink and thought, perhaps the next challenger would be mighty python. Although the python had more strength, it would be a daunting task to avoid the poisonous bite of the spider. Whatever the outcome and whomever the victor, they would dare not challenge her father. He was a big man that looked down on mature elm trees. A man who could uproot the elm and use its roots to pick his teeth if he so desired. A man who plucked rain clouds from the sky and used them as sponges to wash his body.
Joe turned the water off, grabbed a cotton towel hanging from a metal rack attached to a wall and said, “All yours.”
Helen shelved her fascination, tiptoed back to reality and produced a huge smile. She wasn’t exactly sure why she felt like smiling. For some unknown reason, a happy feeling crept up on her and she felt good inside.
Joe finished drying his hands and glanced into the sink as he headed for the hallway leading to the living room. He stopped at the corner, turned to Helen and said, “Would you do me one more favor, sweetheart?”
“What’s that?” she inquired, still maintaining a smile.
He eyeballed the potatoes and said, “What did you have in mind for the potatoes?”
“I was going to mash them. Why?”
“That’s what I thought. Do you think you could try doing something different with them this time so we didn’t need spoons to eat them? You know what I mean. So they’re more solid and not like soup.”
Even Joe’s comment about the potatoes didn’t tarnish her smile. “I’ll give it my best shot!”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” said Joe as he resumed his journey to the living room. There was a time he would maybe kiss her on the cheek or provide a reassuring pat to the back or arm. Those gestures of affection had faded like a red drape in direct sunlight. Helen understood their absence and longed for their resurrection.
She peeled the potatoes, put them in a pot of heating water and opened the refrigerator. She took six pork chops wrapped in butcher paper from the crisper and enough salad fixings to make a robust garden salad for all of them. All she needed to complete the meal plan was a can of sweet corn. She opened the cabinet door and read the labels on the assorted cans. She read the corn label and thought, why in the world do they label it “sweet corn”. I have never in my life seen or eaten or even heard of “sour” corn.
Jean tarried in her usual hideaway until she was relatively certain that the burdensome kitchen torture was either completed or so close to completion that she wouldn’t be recruited to help. At just the right moment she popped her head around the corner and exclaimed insidiously, “Gee, Helen. Everything’s done. Why didn’t you call me for help? There’s nothing left for me to do.”
“There never is, you lazy, selfish bitch!” replied Helen angrily.
“My, we have matured, haven’t we? Does it make you feel grown-up to use curse words? Does it make you feel better? I wish Dad could have heard you just now. His sweet, innocent, little girl with the foul mouth!”
Helen responded with a disgruntled look and shouted, “DINNER’S READY!”
Jean employed an exaggerated leap backward as if sincerely startled and said, “Why are you yelling?” She saw her father coming down the hallway from the living room and put her face about one inch from Helen’s ear. She smiled and whispered, “…daddy’s little, kiss-ass bitch!”
Helen ignored her evaluation and proceeded to act in her usual obsequious style, always making sure everyone had what they needed and wanted before she joined them.
All throughout dinner, Helen noticed her father staring at her with unusually compassionate eyes. Finally, after swallowing a mouthful of lumpy mashed potatoes, she said, “Is there something on your mind, Dad?”
Joe rested his fork on his plate and while looking down at it replied, “I was just thinking that you’re really maturing. You’re looking more and more like a woman with each passing day. I found some pictures and was flipping through the photo album trying to find the best place to stick them.” Joe raised his eyes, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his thumbs. He looked at Helen and got a little misty-eyed. “I saw a picture of your mother when she was close to your age. You look so much like her. You have her soft, compassionate eyes and full lips. You even have the same curl in your hair just above your right eye. She was a very beautiful and caring woman. Just as you are a beautiful and caring woman.”
Helen converted a blank expression into a slightly red-faced half-smile. She restrained herself in front of Jean and was careful not to reveal the true joy she felt. She held the compliment close to her heart and savored the moment like a fine wine. “Thanks, Dad,” she said as she met his eyes.
“I’m somewhat surprised that boys aren’t hovering around you like bees on a hive. You’re witty, intelligent, sensitive and just as pretty as your sister. God knows, she always has some lumphead on the telephone.”
“Helen’s too weird for most boys, Dad. She’s pretty much too weird for anyone at school. Boys at school used to flirt with her all the time and ask her for her telephone number. She’d freeze, stand there like a mute and just stare at them. They thin
Helen glared at her sister. Jean had promised not to mention the incident to her father.
Joe felt the tension mounting between his girls and didn’t consider Helen’s reaction to be so inappropriate. He realized what Jean was doing and although he didn’t approve of her tactics, he felt she deserved to be heard.
“I don’t know that it sounds all that horrible, Jean. I would have been more disappointed if the boys at school thought of her as being ‘easy’.” Joe wiped his mouth with his napkin, put his plate in the sink and said, “I know I haven’t been the greatest father over the past few years. It’s partially because I really don’t always know the best way to deal with female issues. Hell, I haven’t even been able to deal with my own situations very well. Sometimes it is a real challenge to cope with my emotions.” He slid his chair close to Helen and sat down. “I’m probably the last one to give advice but I’ll always listen and try to help both of you in anyway I can. I’ll never give up on either of you and hope you never give up on me. I hope you girls understand that you are the most important thing in the world to me. If either of you ever need to talk about anything, I promise I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and listen,” said Joe in a kind voice.
Helen smiled and said, “I know you love us, Dad, and I appreciate the offer with all of my heart. I’m not having any problems right now, okay? I just don’t want anything to do with a boy that has a burning blaze in his eyes. I’m looking for someone with smoldering embers who will last and build up a friendship.”
“See what I mean, Dad? She’s too weird. She sounds likes she’s reading some meaningless poetry junk from a book. Nobody and I mean nobody talks like that in school!” said Jean vacantly.
Joe rested his palm on the back of Helen’s hand and said, “You’re not weird, sweetheart. You’re sensitive, have a big heart and lots of wonderful dreams.”
Jean rolled her eyes and finished the remaining tidbits of her dinner.
Helen was taken aback by her father’s sudden openness. It took her a few minutes to digest the entire conversation. She rose from her chair, put her arms around her father’s waist and gave him a firm hug. She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Thanks, Dad. I love you!”
He returned the hug and smiled. Joe pushed his chair back in and said, “I’m going to watch television. Jean, make sure you help your sister with the cleanup…and don’t give her any of your shit!”
He left the kitchen to the sound of Jean’s silverware crashing against her plate. “Make sure you help your sister,” mocked Jean. “Poor, little miss kiss-ass. Wah, wah, wah,”
Joe was only halfway down the hallway and heard her comment. He turned and marching sharply back into the kitchen, pointed his finger at Jean and said, “Knock it off. There’s no need for that and I won’t tolerate it. We have enough problems already. Let’s pull together. Enough said?”
Jean looked at him sheepishly and replied, “Yes, Dad.”
Joe turned to Helen and she also replied affirmatively. He walked back down the hall, turned on the television and sat back in his favorite recliner.
Even though he was already out of the kitchen, the mental image of her father’s finger pointing at Jean impressed her. She almost expected powerful lightning bolts to come crackling forward. She loved those powerful hands. Those safe and gentle hands.
Jean found several reasons to excuse herself from the kitchen while Helen put everything away and washed the dishes. Helen completed the nightly kitchen routine by herself, as usual, while her father dozed in his recliner. Helen never told on Jean and Jean counted on it.
The following morning, before leaving for school, the girls were met by Joe at the front door. They knew immediately that something was up because he never waited for them in the past.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you about a phone call I got from your Aunt Caroline. She told me she would be arriving at O’Hare airport tonight. We’re going to pick her up at around eight. We’ll catch a bite to eat while we’re out so there’s no need for any dinner plans. The house could use a little straightening here and there, so make that your number one priority as soon as you get home from school. Better put some fresh linens on the guest bed while you’re at it. Understood?” said Joe firmly.
“What in the world did we do to deserve a visit from Aunt Caroline?” asked Jean.
“Yeah. Why’s she coming now, Dad?” joined Helen.
“Partly to discuss your boarding arrangements when you go to live with her this summer, Jean. She’s really looking forward to it.”
Jean rolled her eyes and turned her head toward the wall. Going to live with Aunt Caroline was like signing up for a course in masochism. She turned slowly back to face Joe and said, “Dad, I really think I can make it without her.”
“We’ve discussed this beyond the point of exhaustion, Jean. There’s no way we can afford room and board at Western Illinois and we agreed long ago that it would be better to get settled before the first semester started. That will give you plenty of time to get to know the area and track down a part-time job. Caroline only lives twenty minutes from the university and I think she’s being damn generous about the whole thing,” said Joe with a deepening, more serious tone of voice.
“I understand what you’re saying and I…” started Jean.
Joe interrupted, “Jean, we’ve discussed this a thousand times. That’s nine hundred, ninety-nine times too many. I don’t want to listen to anymore of your bullshit. Enough already. Okay?”
Helen looked away from the two of them and snickered privately. She turned to Jean, offered a huge Cheshire cat smile and said, “Aunt Caroline is very sweet and thoughtful, Sis. You know in your heart that you’ll love it there!”
Joe gave Helen a disapproving look and said, “She also wants to bring us some jewelry that belonged to your mother. She feels that you girls have reached an age where you can care for it properly. A couple of pieces have been in your mother’s family for several generations.”
“What kind of jewelry?” queried Helen.
“There’s an old cameo brooch that belonged to your grandmother. I believe it was given to her when her mother died. They say some member of English royalty gave it to your great-great-great-grandmother. I don’t know how true that is because nothing was ever written down. All we have are stories that have been passed on over time. Who knows how many times the story has been modified over the years. There’s also a gold stickpin with a small diamond at the top. It was your Grandpa Kline’s. His father was a jeweler and made it for his own wedding and then gave it to your grandpa when he got married. There’s also a few odds and ends, unfortunately, I’m not certain what they are.”
“If it was Mom’s jewelry, what’s Aunt Caroline doing with it?” asked Jean.
“Your mother never actually had the jewelry in her possession. Grandma and Grandpa had the jewelry in their safety deposit box with some other stuff. When they passed away, some things were willed to your mother and others were willed to Aunt Caroline. Your mother told Caroline to hang on to it for her until she asked for it. Audrey trusted Caroline and knew she’d keep it safe and out of harm’s away until she wanted it.”
Joe hesitated, looked to Helen and said, “Aunt Caroline also had a very odd question. She asked if we
“What’s so special about a beat-up old puzzle? We don’t have to give it to her, do we, Dad?” said Helen anxiously as she remembered her secret promise to Audrey’s soul.
“Nah. I won’t let her take it if it means something to you, sweetheart,” said Joe as he glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late for work. Save any other questions until I get home.”
Joe kissed each of the girls goodbye and drove to the Canfield Construction site near downtown Chicago. The very lucrative contract his company had landed would guarantee Joe plenty of industrial wiring for some time to come. It wasn’t always that way in the past. Months would go by when layoffs were the norm and work the exception. There were days that Joe didn’t have enough money to put gas in his car and the family had to eat breakfast cereal for dinner. Fortunately, the family was strong enough to weather those storms and pull through.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FEEDINGS