Return to Appleton Page 6

  Oh, faithful Jesus, I sure could use a car.

  The white colonial with brown, muddy-looking shutters appeared more tired than the last time Gloria saw it. It sagged with an air of resignation, like an old beauty queen who had seen better days and knew it. In its prime, before Tracy’s parents split up, it was the envy of the neighborhood. The lawn had looked like a cropped and edged emerald carpet, the hedges were trimmed in pleasing shapes, the flowerbeds infused with a different assortment of colorful annuals every year—“just so no one gets bored looking at it,” Tracy’s mother would say. Now the lawn was brown and needed mowing, the hedges stuck out in all directions, and the flowerbeds held weeds and little else.

  Gloria dismounted, flipped the metal kickstand, and parked her bike. When she got to the door and rang the bell, she was surprised to notice her hand trembling. Why so nervous? She and Tracy went way back. Tracy had been Gloria’s best friend—and most of the time her only friend—all through grade school and high school and right up to last year.

  But things were different now.

  She heard movement behind the door, then the sound of footsteps, but the door didn’t open. She wondered if the bell was working and pressed it again, this time listening for the familiar strains of the 1812 Overture, which alerted the household to visitors.

  Okay, the bell worked. So why wasn’t anyone answering? Several minutes passed, and Gloria pressed the bell again. And again. And again. She hadn’t worn slacks to church and pedaled all this way looking like a windswept waif to be discouraged now. She pressed firmly on the button and didn’t release it until the door finally opened.

  “For crying out loud! Can’t you take a hint, Nic—Oh … hello, kiddo. I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was … My goodness! What happened? You look like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck.”

  Tracy sounded as shrill as that irritating whistle her brother, Tucker, used to blow when they all played school together and he was the principal and forever sending Tracy to detention. Gloria threw her arms around her friend, surprised to feel the bones of her vertebrae beneath the baggy T-shirt. Tracy hadn’t gained an ounce since she had left Eckerd. But that was another matter, something Gloria would place on the back burner. Right now she needed to work at repairing the jagged edges that had developed in their relationship. They hadn’t seen each other since the night Tracy had sneaked out of Gloria’s Eckerd apartment, leaving a note behind on the coffee table.

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” Gloria said, giving Tracy a Grandma-Quinn-size hug.

  Tracy returned the hug, only out of politeness it seemed, and she was the first to pull away. “You want to come in?” Her eyes scanned the street like she was looking for someone.

  Gloria thought it strange that Tracy should have to ask. It was almost like Tracy was uncomfortable or, even worse, like she wanted to be rid of her. Was Tracy still embarrassed … or maybe angry about Gloria flushing her marijuana down the drain?

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Almost three weeks.” Gloria walked through the entrance while Tracy held the screen. “I called you four times,” she said, unable to restrain herself even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t bring up Tracy’s unresponsiveness. She felt mildly irritated that Tracy hadn’t mentioned it first. “How come you never called back?”

  “I’ve been meaning to, but you know how it is … Things come up …” The screen snapped shut with a grinding metallic sound, and Gloria noticed it wasn’t hanging properly. She saw Tracy’s eyes follow hers to the hinges. One was badly bent. “Nick Cervantes got a little rambunctious. Almost tore the door right off.”

  “Nick Cervantes? I thought he was in jail.”

  “Nope. Got out almost a year ago.”

  “What’s he doing tearing doors off your house?”

  Tracy chewed the end of her ponytail and shrugged. “He comes over once in a while. And he didn’t tear the door off. He just bent it a little.”

  An uneasy feeling enveloped Gloria, like a layer of her mother’s greasy body oil, as she followed Tracy upstairs. “Since when have you two become friends?” Nick Cervantes had been sent to prison on drug charges.

  “Gloria, what is this? You writing a novel or something? Can’t a girl have some secrets?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re romantically involved with him.”

  Tracy opened the closed door of her bedroom and flipped on the light, even though the room was bright enough from the light pouring through the triple Andersen windows. “I didn’t get a chance to straighten today, so don’t look, okay?” Tracy stepped over shoes and a crumpled pair of pj’s before flopping on the bed. With a flip of her wrist she shoved the stack of magazines that covered her pillows onto the floor. “Sheesh. I can’t believe I’m twenty-eight and living at home. Who would believe it? I mean, I figured I’d be settled on my own long before you, and here you are. I hate living at home. Mom’s cool, but she’s dating like crazy—right now it’s some guy from New Canterbury with a crop of hair plugs around his temples. Reminds me of those scrawny azaleas Clive’s wife put on both sides of the hen house one year. Remember? Anyway, can you believe it? My mother has more dates than I do. The woman is never home. Still … we manage to get on each other’s nerves.”

  Tracy reached over and pulled open the nightstand drawer. “The other day we had a doozy of a fight. Mom thinks I’m a slob. Said so right to my face.” Tracy sifted through the crammed drawer. “ ’Course she’s right. But then she really frosted me when she said I didn’t pull my weight around here. That I’d trip over the garbage before I’d pick it up and that I’d sooner buy new dishes than wash the old ones.” Tracy yanked out a bottle of purple nail polish and gave it a good shake. “But yesterday, she topped it all. Actually blew a fuse because I didn’t weed the stupid flowerbeds out front while she was off gallivanting with Mr. Hair Plugs.” Tracy twisted open the top, pulled out the applicator, and began coloring her fingernails. “Can you imagine? I’m the one with the full-time job while she’s happily living off her alimony checks and partying. And I’m supposed to weed the flowerbeds.” Tracy shook her head. “I’ve really gotta get outta here—find another place to live.”

  “I hear you’re working at Dooley & Dooley.” Gloria sat down on the desk chair, feeling vaguely sad for Tracy’s mother and not knowing why.

  “Yeah … it’s just temporary, until I get something better. You should see the place. What a zoo! I never knew people needed a dentist so often. And what babies! Sometimes I have to be real nice and encouraging, even to the adults. You’d think they could handle a little thing like a root canal. It’s not like they’re getting their arm sawed off, for heaven’s sake. The kids are the worst, though. Some of them cry and carry on like crazy in the waiting room, and the Dooleys expect me to quiet them down with lollipops and funny faces, as if I don’t have enough to do managing the front desk and sending out all those statements, not to mention fighting with the insurance companies. And the pay is pathetic. It doesn’t come close to Medical Data, but I burned that bridge, it seems … Anyway, no use rehashing ancient history—”

  “I wish I could make it right. I’m sorry you lost your job because of me.”

  “Yeah … well, like I said, ancient history. But it’s gonna take me longer, with this crummy salary, to pay off all those credit cards.”

  “How’s it going?” Gloria glanced at the desk and saw a dozen credit card statements littering the top, then quickly looked away.

  “At this rate I’ll be thirty-eight before I get outta here. Unless of course I can find some man to marry and pay them for me.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s Stue Irving?”

  Tracy sluggishly painted her last nail, shoved the applicator back into the bottle and twisted it shut.

  “The brilliant Stue Irving? Remember him?”

  The bed creaked as Tracy put the bottle of polish on the nightstand, then brought her feet—shoes and all—onto the mattress. �
��Rats. Now how am I gonna get these off?” She stared at her Nikes as if willing them to come off on their own. When nothing happened, she looked up. “Gloria, would you be a pal?”

  Gloria rose from her chair, went over to the bed and unlaced Tracy’s sneakers. Then she slipped them off Tracy’s perfect size-six feet and watched her wiggle her stocking toes.

  “I hate to be a bother, but mind getting the pillows for me too?”

  Gloria fluffed two pillows and tucked them between Tracy and her brass headboard, positioning one slightly higher to support Tracy’s neck. “Stue Irving? Remember?”

  “Can you believe Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck split up, and now she’s married to that singer already?” Tracy absently blew on her nails, then flapped her hands up and down like a bird ready to take flight. The movie magazines Tracy had thrown down were scattered across the floor by her bed. Gloria thought Tracy had stopped reading those years ago.

  “What do Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez have to do with anything?”

  “They seemed like the perfect couple. Didn’t they? I kinda envied them all that romance and excitement.”

  “That’s not real life, Tracy. It’s just make-believe. Who knows what goes on after the cameras shut down? Most of those big stars are miserable. Their lives are a mess. They’re hooked on drugs or alcohol and—”

  “I don’t know what I ever saw in Stue. He’s only marginally good-looking, and sometimes when I catch his profile a certain way, especially right after one of Horace Beezley’s haircuts where he buzzes the sides too short and leaves the back too long, he’s almost homely. Besides that, Stue’s got no sense of humor, and he’s tighter than dry rawhide with his money …

  “I guess if I had to describe Stue in one word it would be dull. Positively dull. Did you know you can tell what day of the week it is by his sandwich? Boar’s Head bologna is Monday, chunk light tuna Tuesday, mushroom and pimiento meatloaf Wednesday, egg salad with onion and celery Thursday, and lettuce, tomato, and white American cheese Friday. Now, I ask you, is that the kind of man who could keep a girl’s interest for long?” Tracy lightly touched her thumbnail to see if it was dry. It must have still been tacky because she started blowing and flapping all over again. “No. I need a man who’s more exciting, willing to live on the edge, take some chances. Someone who keeps me guessing, who’s full of surprises.”

  Gloria felt queasy. “I hope you’re not talking about someone like Nick Cervantes.”

  “Suppose I am.” Tracy fanned out her fingers in front of her and stared at them. “Just suppose I am.”

  “Oh, Tracy, you can’t be serious! He’s been in and out of jail since high school. He’s not the kind of man you could settle down with.”

  “I see how it is. Your Christian faith, and all that talk about forgiveness, doesn’t cover someone like Nicky. It only covers those who wear suits and have steady jobs and hang around the right people.”

  A year ago Gloria would have let Tracy intimidate her with that statement, would have let Tracy twist things around and make her feel foolish. Now, she rose to her feet, mainly for effect, or perhaps to gain some psychological advantage by achieving the greater height. “You know perfectly well what I mean. This has nothing to do with forgiveness, but everything to do with common sense. I know how you operate, Tracy. You like to play with guys, string them along, squeeze their last dollar from their wallets. But you’d be a fool to take on someone like Nick Cervantes. He’s trouble. And he’s dangerous. Why did he nearly rip the screen off its hinges? Did you have a fight? Did you do something he didn’t like?”

  For a moment, Tracy sat like a propped popsicle. Then she closed her eyes and began to laugh. “I really had you going, didn’t I? You really fell for it, didn’t you? Imagine me and Nicky Cervantes! What a laugh.”

  “So it was all a joke?”

  “Of course, kiddo. Whaddaya think?”

  Gloria thought Tracy was lying.

  Gloria’s ancient Schwinn sped down Baker Street, where the sidewalks were ample and she didn’t have to concern herself with traffic. It was the longer route to her apartment, but since her mind was preoccupied, she figured it was best she take the safer course home. The air was heavy with the scent of dahlias from Pearl Owens’s garden, and Gloria inhaled deeply, trying to take the scent with her. It reminded her of the sweet things in life, and right now she could use some reminding.

  The wind had died down. It didn’t whip Gloria unmercifully like it had on the way to Tracy’s. It was barely strong enough to flutter the leaves on the maples lining the sidewalk. Her legs moved slowly, almost like she had weights tied to her ankles.

  And to her heart.

  Instead of drawing Tracy closer, her visit had made them seem farther apart than ever. And Tracy and Nick Cervantes? Oh, my heavens. If it was true, if it wasn’t just Tracy’s sick idea of a joke, then Tracy was heading for trouble. And she would need a friend.

  A charley horse in Gloria’s right calf had started making its presence known on Baker Street. By the time she got to the corner of Spoon Lake and Main, it was so painful she had to stop. She rested the Schwinn on its kickstand, then limped to the bench in front of Tad’s Ice Cream Parlor, and sat down. Sam Hidel’s Grocery and her apartment were less than a mile away, but she couldn’t make it with this mother-of-all-cramps. She hunched over and massaged the back of her leg—kneading it like it was a lump of Grandma Quinn’s garlic-bread dough. It took several minutes, but finally the muscle relaxed and Gloria settled back on the bench. She’d sit a few minutes, then pedal the rest of the way home.

  From her vantage point, she watched traffic snail along Main Street as though the drivers had nowhere in particular to go and had come out just to see what the rest of the world was doing. Funny how Main Street seemed so provincial, so small after Eckerd, and yet … exactly the same. People married, raised families, and went to work just like in Eckerd. And there was plenty of sin and sadness here too. Sometimes, when she thought of it, her spirit would weep and she’d find herself praying, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus.” But then she’d remember Mother and Tracy and Cutter. If Jesus came now, they would be lost forever.

  When Cutter’s black Saab suddenly roared up along the curb in front of her, she couldn’t help but smile. Wasn’t that just like Jesus? Prepping her heart. Making her think of Cutter’s lost condition one minute, then sending him to her, like an airmail package, the next?

  He popped out of the car as if his legs were pogo sticks, and Gloria listened to the tap tap tap of his brown Florsheim shoes as he approached the bench.

  “I’m glad I bumped into you.”

  Gloria resisted the urge to laugh. She’d hardly call this a “bumping into.” She made room on the bench so Cutter could sit, and when he did, she was startled to see a look of embarrassment on his face. It reminded her of the time she had caught him leaving an apple for Miss Summerworth, his fifth-grade teacher.

  “Virginia’s having one of her tantrums. Been in bed for over three weeks.”

  “Yes, I heard. Mother told me she wasn’t feeling well. Said your mom had a series of tests. But I wasn’t sure if there was really something wrong or …”

  “Or if I had been a bad boy?”

  Gloria laughed. “Well …”

  “I guess I’ve been bad. I moved out, did you hear?”

  Gloria nodded.

  “Yeah … shortly after you left Appleton. That was one thing Virginia never expected. She figured I was too spoiled to manage on my own. Figured anyone who didn’t know how to make his own bed or run a washing machine or boil an egg wasn’t going to survive in the wilds.”

  Gloria felt a stirring in her heart—a potpourri of pity and compassion and kinship, as though she and Cutter belonged to a secret society of those who had suffered at the hands of their parents. “Mother never expected me to leave home either. And then when I left town, when I actually left Appleton, she was beside herself. I suppose she counted on my timidity to keep me here forever. And it a
lmost did …” Gloria didn’t know why she had said that and would have been sorry except for the smile that creased Cutter’s face as he settled back on the bench.

  “She spent the better part of your life trying to make you frightened of almost everything.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go as far as—”

  “She did, Gloria. Let’s be honest. That was her way of trying to control you, just as Virginia’s way of trying to control me is her sickbed. And for a while there I really thought your mother had finished you for good. But when you left Appleton, I knew you were going to be all right.”

  The two sat quietly side by side like AARP cardholders, not saying anything, just watching the Sunday traffic wind along Main Street, with Gloria thinking it strange that she didn’t feel uncomfortable.

  After a while, Cutter sat upright, then cleared his throat. “Virginia asked for you. Said she’d like you to come see her.”

  Gloria felt the old hostility return. “Cutter … I can’t go through this again. All the pressure, all the—”

  “I know. I know. I told her you wouldn’t come. But I promised I’d ask. And I don’t think it’s about … I don’t think Virginia will talk to you about us getting married.”

  They fell back into silence, each gazing into his own space. “I’ll pray about it,” Gloria found herself saying. “I won’t promise anything other than I’ll pray about it.” And Cutter nodded as though what she said made perfect sense, even though Gloria knew he didn’t believe in prayer or in her faithful Jesus.

  Why did she always come out looking like the villain? Like Joan Crawford instead of Doris Day? It just wasn’t fair. But Geri Bickford had learned long ago that life wasn’t fair. She carefully creamed off her makeup with a Swisspers pad, using an upward stroke across her cheeks. No use giving gravity any more assistance. Her skin had already begun to sag. Soon it would match her heart. That had been sagging for years.