Mulberry Park (8 page)

“Hey, I finally caught you at home.”

It was Vickie, and there wasn’t any way to avoid the call.

“I’m sorry, Vick. I meant to call you back, but I’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“Busy is good. I hadn’t talked to you in months, so I thought I ought to give you a call. What have you been up to?”

Claire glanced at the fabric-littered table. “Actually, I’ve been sewing.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ve always been a great seamstress. I still have that apron you gave me a few Christmases back, the one with all the intricate appliqués. And I still get tons of compliments on it.”

Silence lingered on the line, as Claire scrambled to find some common ground without quizzing her friend about her family or her kids. Vickie’s son, Jason, had been only a year older than Erik, and each time Claire thought of the boy, thought of the things he was involved with, the sports he played, she was reminded of all Erik had missed out on. All the activities she, as a mother, hadn’t been able to share.

It wasn’t as though Vickie had been insensitive to Claire’s discomfort in the past. She’d always gone to great lengths to avoid bringing up family stuff, although tiptoeing around it didn’t work very well, either.

“So what do you say about having a girls’ day?” Vickie said. “I don’t know about you, but I could certainly use a day of pampering. And that new spa is supposed to be great.”

All right
, Claire wanted to say.
Let’s grab our Day Planners
. However, Claire’s calendar was pretty blank these days, and Vickie’s had to be filled to the brim with…What sport was Jason playing this time of year? Little League?

“How does this Saturday work for you?” Vickie asked.

Claire glanced down at the pink flannel, ran her finger along the soft fabric. “Actually, I’m busy this weekend.” For once, the excuse rang true.

But so did the possibility that Vickie would finally throw in the towel of their friendship. And try as she might, Claire couldn’t forget how tight they’d once been.

After all, Vickie had been the first one to arrive at the hospital following the accident, the one to wait while Erik was in ICU, offering to put him on the prayer chain at her church. And during those dark days before and after the funeral, it had been Vickie who’d called the president of the PTA and saw to it that meals were brought in to the Harper home on a regular basis. For the next couple of weeks, when it was all Claire could do to roll out of bed and put one foot in front of the other, Vickie had done the laundry and picked up groceries.

She’d been a godsend, and Claire had told her so many times. But as life and reality began to settle around them, Claire had finally been forced to level with Vickie, admitting that as much as she loved her, as much as she valued her friendship, being around a happy wife and mother hurt too much.

And Vickie, bless her heart, had understood. “I’ll continue to call and check on you every couple of months or so,” she’d told Claire. “Just let me know when you’re ready to pick up where we left off.”

They’d had lunch two or three times over the past couple of years, and Claire had called Vickie when Ron had moved out. But they were no longer close. Not like they’d been in the past. And now that Claire thought about it, she realized that Vickie’s calls were becoming less frequent.

If Claire didn’t snap to pretty soon, she stood to lose the best friend she’d ever had. Something she couldn’t let happen.

“You know,” she said, “although I’m busy this Saturday, I’m free the next. Are you?”

Vickie cleared her throat. “I…uh…well, darn it. That won’t work for me.”

A dance recital maybe? A baseball tournament? A family camping trip?

Claire knew better than to ask, and Vickie was sensitive enough not to explain. But at least Claire had agreed to meet her.

“Why don’t I give you a call in a week or so,” Vickie said. “Maybe then we’ll be able to lock in some time to get together.”

“Sounds good.” Claire gripped the receiver until her knuckles ached, trying to hold onto the frayed connection. “I know how busy you get, Vick, so I’ll call you. And if the spa doesn’t work, maybe we can try lunch again.”

“That would be great.”

When they said their good-byes and the line disconnected, Claire returned to her project.

She realized that she could have altered her plans to take the doll clothes to the park this weekend, going with Vickie instead. But she’d also promised to talk to Trevor on Analisa’s behalf.

Hopefully, seeing a smile light up the little blonde’s face would be more therapeutic than a massage.

On Monday morning, Walter made his way toward the sidewalk that wove through the park. He walked just steps behind Hilda, who clutched her canvas tote to her side as if it held everything she owned.

Analisa had run ahead to the playground, leaving the elderly nanny to bring up the rear.

“Good morning,” Walter called out.

When Hilda turned to face him, he lifted the two folded lawn chairs he carried, one in each hand. “These are a lot more comfortable than the park benches. I had an extra one in the garage, so I thought you might want to use it.”

“Why, thank you.” She offered him a weary smile. “I believe I’ll take you up on the offer. Those fiberglass seats are hard on more than my back. And since I forgot to take my pain medication this morning…” Rather than go on to explain, she clucked her tongue instead.

Walter tended to keep to himself these days, yet he had a feeling Hilda was in the same boat he was. Well, maybe not the same one; sometimes he swore his was sinking. “I know you like the shade, as well as being close to the playground to watch Analisa. So what do you say we set your chair here?”

“That’ll be just fine.”

Moments later, he had the seat open, sturdy and ready for her. “There you go.”

When she thanked him, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you for a while?”

“Sure. Go ahead and sit down.” Her smile softened the lines in her face and caused her blue-gray eyes to sparkle.

Once he’d set up his own chair, she reached into her tote, withdrew her thermos, and poured herself some tea. “If you happen to have a spare cup, I’ll share this with you.”

“No need. I’m a coffee drinker anyway. And I’ve had my fill of it this morning.”

They sat for a while, watching Analisa play with a little red-haired girl, a child who wasn’t one of the regulars.

“Analisa makes friends easily,” Walter said.

“Yes, she does.” Hilda took a sip of tea. “Since she’s an only child and would spend every spare minute in her bedroom, coloring and playing by herself, I like to get her outdoors as often as I can. Besides, she really enjoys the park.”

“How about you?” Walter asked. “What do you enjoy doing? On your day off, I mean.”

Hilda shrugged. “I visit the library. Sometimes I go to the museum.”

“I take it you live around here,” he said.

“I have a small apartment a couple of blocks away.” She took another sip of tea.

“My place is nearby, too. It’s completely paid for now—thank goodness. I feel sorry for retired folks who have a mortgage or rent to pay on a fixed income. Of course, you’re employed, so it’s probably not a problem for you.”

“Working at my age wasn’t part of the plan. I made a foolish mistake, and now I have to face the consequences.” Hilda took another drink of tea. “I used to own a home and had a nest egg, too.”

“What happened?”

“I made a bad investment. I’m afraid it was the most foolhardy thing I’ve ever done in my life. And now I’m stuck living in a rundown apartment complex, where the other tenants are young and loud.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, the hardest part is realizing that it’s true what they say: ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’”

He wanted to quiz her more, but hated it when others pried into his business. So instead, he nudged her with his arm. “Don’t beat yourself up for the mistakes you made in the past. At least, that’s the advice I was given. And believe me, I’ve made my share, which I’m sure were a lot worse than yours.”

Hilda slid a doubtful glance his way.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the market and didn’t realize I’d forgotten my dentures at home?”

“That must have been embarrassing.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Walter chuckled. “They were handing out free samples that day, and I’d skipped lunch. I was starving, so I stopped by a display of trail mix. I threw back one of those little paper cups full of nuts and clumps of oats and all kinds of hard, crunchy things. Once I chomped down on it, I remembered my teeth were still on the nightstand.”

“That must have been a real hoot.” Hilda slid him a grin. “I would have liked to have seen it.”

“We may as well laugh about our follies, huh?” Walter nudged her arm again, as if they’d been friends for years and had grown used to giggling over their antics and mishaps. “It’s easier that way.”

“Well, I’m afraid my foolishness had a lasting consequence.”

“You seem to be making the best of it.”

“Am I? I find myself moping around about it, when I used to be a happy person. And I tend to snap and snarl at others.”

“You gotta look on the bright side,” Walter said. “That’s what my friend Carl used to always tell me.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Hilda drank the last of her tea, then refilled her cup. “The trouble is, I should have known better. After all, I’ve always prided myself in having a good head on my shoulders. Of course, that’s no longer the case.”

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer for the longest time, and when he’d just about decided she wasn’t going to, she said, “I’ve been pretty forgetful lately, and I have reason to believe my mind isn’t…well, it isn’t what it used to be.”

“
Tell
me about it.” Walter half-snorted, half-sniggered. “The Golden Years aren’t what they’re cracked up to be, are they?”

“You’ve got that right. My arthritis is acting up like old fury again today, and you’d think I’d be able to remember to take my medicine.” Hilda ran her index finger along the rim of her plastic cup as if it was an expensive goblet and she was hearing the validating sound of crystal ringing. “You know, I haven’t shared this with anyone, and I’m not sure why I am now. But I’m really growing concerned about my forgetfulness.”

“I have that problem, too. Remember the teeth? And I never can find the darn television remote control, which is a real shame since I’m the only one living in the house.”

“A certain amount of that is part of the aging process, I suppose, but my mother and her sister both developed dementia. Or maybe it was Alzheimer’s. Who knew for sure back then?”

Walter reached out and placed his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean you’ll get the same thing.”

She smiled, although he suspected it was forced. “I can’t stand the thought of becoming like Mama and Aunt Rose, and it scares the liver out of me. What if Sam—Mr. Dawson—decides I’m too old to be a nanny? Too negligent, too scattered these days?”

Walter caressed the top of her hand, hoping his touch could warm the chill of her fear. “Don’t fret about it. I’m sure he realizes a little memory loss is to be expected at our age.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Her gaze snagged his. “But I truly hope you’ll keep what I said to yourself.”

“You’ll find I’m good at keeping secrets.”

She turned her attention back to the playground, and Walter glanced down at his liver-spotted hand, where it covered Hilda’s. He slowly removed it, letting it plop back into his lap. He didn’t usually reach out to people like that, so the boldness of his touch surprised him. But he’d sensed the fear of senility was more real for her than for most old folks, and his heart had gone out to her.

They both went back to watching the children play, yet he suspected Hilda’s mind was miles away—stewing about her forgetfulness, most likely. There wasn’t much a person could do about growing older, though.

“You know,” he said, unwilling to give up the intimacy they’d been tiptoeing through, “my mind isn’t what it used to be, either. But I don’t stress too much about losing my memory, probably because there are some things better forgotten.”

“Like what?”

“The bad memories.” The ones he used to drink to forget. But now that he was on the wagon, it was a constant struggle to keep them at bay.

“What are you trying to forget?” she asked.

“If I spilled my guts, it would stir them all up again.”

“What could be that bad?” she asked.

“Killing someone.”

“You
killed
someone?” She didn’t get up from the chair, but he watched her draw away from him just the same.

“During the war. In Korea.” At times the nightmares of bloody battles woke him still. Walter reached over and patted the top of her hand again, enjoying the contact more than he dared admit. “But let’s not get into that.”

“All right then.” She nudged him with her arm in a way that seemed a bit…playful, he supposed, although flirty had come to mind.

There were more memories he’d like to forget. And even though he’d broached the subject and it might make him feel better to unload them, he was leery about going on and on about his shortcomings when it came to being a husband and stepfather. Especially when this chat had him thinking that maybe—if he didn’t blow it—he and Hilda could become friends. And if that were the case, she didn’t need to hear him list his faults.

They sat quietly a bit longer, enjoying the fresh air and the rustle of leaves overhead.

Walter watched little Analisa run up to Hilda and hand her a baby doll. “Mrs. Richards, will you please hold Lucita for me?”

“Yes…” Hilda paused for a long moment, then slowly took the doll, “…honey.”

As the child skipped back to the playground, Walter said, “She sure is a cute little tyke.”

Hilda nodded. “I know. But it’s unsettling when that happens.”

“When what happens?”

“When I can’t remember her name.”

M
aria stood at the kitchen sink, washing breakfast dishes and humming the tune of a song she’d learned in Spanish as a child. Some women didn’t like household chores, but she wasn’t one of them.

She loved everything about her home, a three-story Victorian that was one of eight still remaining on Sugar Plum Lane, a quiet street in the heart of Old Town Fairbrook.

The kitchen, with its pale yellow walls and Formica countertops, had been remodeled about twenty years ago and was ready for another renovation. But Maria wouldn’t change much—even if she had the money to do so. She wanted it to remain just as she remembered it.

When Tía Sofía had been alive, the warm, cozy interior often bore the hearty aroma of a pot simmering on the stove or something fresh from the oven—cinnamon rolls, pumpkin bread,
pan dulce
. So in keeping with the tradition and hoping to pass on the same pleasant memories to her children, Maria cooked and baked, too. Earlier today she’d made oatmeal cookies. And later this afternoon, she would prepare
albóndigas
soup, a family favorite.

As she rinsed the cast-iron skillet in which she’d scrambled eggs and chorizo for breakfast, she faced the kitchen window, which was adorned by a white eyelet valance on top and small potted plants and ferns along the sill.

She peered into the backyard, which was looking more and more like a jungle these days. Her aunt, who’d had a green thumb and loved flowers, had created a garden showcase over the years and would be heartsick to see it now, although Maria suspected she’d understand.

A couple of months ago, while trying to start the lawnmower, Maria had jerked numerous times on the rope to turn over the engine until a pain ripped through her abdomen, causing her to drop to her knees. She’d known enough to stop what she was doing, go into the house and take it easy, but she’d bled some and experienced strong contractions that continued well into the evening.

She hadn’t called the doctor, though.

When she’d first learned that she was expecting her third child, she’d considered having an abortion, but hadn’t been able to go through with it. At the time, she’d no longer had her
tía
to fall back on, so when it appeared she might lose the baby after all, she’d decided to let nature take its course.

Deep in her womb, the little one kicked, as if letting his mother know he wasn’t too happy about the manner in which he’d been conceived, either. And that he thought it was horribly unfair of her to blame him for any of it.

It was enough to make her conscience cringe.

A light rap-rap-rap sounded at the back porch door, and Maria wiped her hands on a yellow-checkered dish towel before answering.

Eleanor Rucker, looking older and more frail than ever, stood on the stoop, her curly gray hair uncombed, her shoulders slumped.

“Good morning, Ellie. Come on in.” Maria held open the door and waited as the elderly woman shuffled into the house.

Ellie had been a dear friend and neighbor of Sofía’s for years, but at eighty-four, her health was failing. Her grandson had been encouraging her to put her house on the market and move in with him, so, like Maria, she stood to lose her home, too.

Maria certainly could understand Ellie’s reluctance to give up her independence. Still, at her age and with her medical problems, she really ought to be closer to family—an option Maria no longer had.

Ellie, bless her heart, realized that and sympathized. Recently, she’d offered to babysit so Maria could continue to work. But the poor woman had arthritis in her back and a heart condition. So, while touched by the suggestion, Maria thanked her, yet declined. She wasn’t comfortable leaving Ellie with two active kids, one of whom was a toddler.

The elderly woman scanned the small kitchen. “Where are Danny and Sara?”

“Watching a cartoon movie on television.”

Maria pulled out a chair for her neighbor. “The coffee’s decaffeinated, and it’s still fresh. Let me pour you a cup.”

“Don’t bother. I can’t stay. My grandson is picking me up shortly. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment later this morning, but to tell you the truth, I think it’s a setup.”

Maria took a seat beside the older woman. “What do you mean?”

“The doctor and my grandson are probably in cahoots. I figure they plan to team up on me and tell me again that it’s time to sell my house and move in with my grandson and his wife.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Ellie let out a bone-weary sigh. “Resigned to it, I suppose. I had a scare last night. Woke up and didn’t know where I was. As I fumbled around in the dark, I tripped on the cat and fell.”

Maria reached across the table and caressed her neighbor’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“I got a bruise on my backside and a knot on my head.” Ellie lifted a clump of curls, revealing a black-and-blue lump. “It could have been worse, though. At least I didn’t break a hip.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Maybe you should get a nightlight.”

“Maybe so.” Ellie clucked her tongue and slowly shook her head. “Poor Pretty Boy. I nearly scared him out of all nine lives. He leapt to the top of the hutch and hasn’t come down yet.”

Ellie was known on the street as the cat lady, but the only one she had left was a frisky young tabby who was too hyper for his own good.

“And speaking of Pretty Boy,” Ellie said. “My grandson’s wife is allergic to animal dander, so when the time comes, I’ll need to find a home for him. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take him?”

A pesky feline that seemed to have a flying squirrel in his pedigree? Maria could hardly take care of the responsibilities she already had, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Ellie no. “Sure. If you need to move, I’ll keep your cat.”

Ellie’s eyes glistened, and as the tears spilled over, she swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I appreciate that.”

“Aw, Ellie. I’m
so
sorry.” Maria wished there was something else she could say, something more she could do.

“I know, but that’s life.” The woman slumped in her seat. “You know what they say, ‘There’s a time to be born and a time to die.’”

Maria placed her hand on her womb, felt her baby stir. Reality and resignation settled over her, as it had for her neighbor. It was just a matter of time and life as Maria knew it would be changing, too.

Ellie reached into the pocket of her housecoat and withdrew a business card. “I asked for two of these last Sunday. This one’s for you.”

The small white card, which had blue and gold lettering, also bore the smiling face of William “Billy” Radcliff, a Realtor.

“That fellow attends my church,” Ellie said. “I don’t know him personally, but the woman who gave it to me assured me he was fair and honest.”

Maria wanted to hand the card back, to tell Ellie,
Thanks, but I won’t need it
.

Instead, she took it.

“How are you feeling?” the older woman asked. “Your time must be getting near.”

“I’m doing all right, I suppose. The doctor said I might go into labor early, but even so, the baby should be fine.”

Another wave of anxiety slid over Maria, shoving the budding resignation aside. She couldn’t help wishing she weren’t pregnant and wondering what she’d done to deserve being backed into a corner like this.

“It must be tough having kids and no husband to support you.”

It was. But even if her ex was still in town and not locked up in a prison up north, he wouldn’t have been much help.

That boy is trouble
, her
tía
used to say.
He’ll find a way to break your heart.

And he had.

“I wish there was something I could do to help you,” Ellie said.

Maria reached across the table, took the older woman’s hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’m sure you will.” Ellie slowly got to her feet. “I won’t keep you, dear. I just wanted to make sure Pretty Boy had a home. And to give you that Realtor’s card.”

Maria watched Ellie walk away through a blur of tears. She’d been trying so hard to hang on, but it was too late. As if on cue, the baby shifted in her womb, reminding her that it would all be over soon.

A time to be born…

…and a time to die
.

Maria suspected Ellie had been quoting the Old Testament, but a golden oldie by The Byrds began to repeat in her mind—“
Turn, turn, turn…
”

She studied the card she’d been given, then forced herself to pick up the telephone and make the call she’d been dreading. Several minutes later, she had made an appointment on Wednesday morning to meet with Billy Radcliff and show him the house.

It had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do, yet as she scanned the small, cozy kitchen, she began to weep, first softly, then with gut-wrenching sobs.

Under her breath, she cursed her ex-husband for ruining her life, for dashing her dreams.

Tía Sofía had seemed to think that God would work it all out somehow, but if He’d truly had a part in all of this, Maria couldn’t see any evidence of it.

“Mama?” Danny asked from the doorway.

Her back was to him, so she reached into the napkin holder on the dinette table, grabbed a handful to use as tissues, and quickly wiped her eyes. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

Maria blinked back her tears the best she could, then turned and forced a smile. “Yes,
mijo
.”

“What’s the matter? You’re crying.” The boy made his way to where she sat at the dinette table and placed his hand on her knee. The worry in his gaze nearly turned her heart on end. She didn’t want him to see her like this—broken and feeling sorry for herself.

“These are happy tears,” she lied. “I was counting all my blessings.”

And she really should have been.

She wrapped him in her arms and kissed his cheek. “Why don’t we celebrate our good fortune at the park today?”

His eyes lit, and he relaxed his stance. “Okay.”

“If you go help Sara put on her shoes, I’ll fix a picnic lunch.”

As Danny dashed off to find his sister, Maria snagged another napkin and did her best to wipe the sadness from her face. Then she grabbed the peanut butter from the cupboard, the strawberry jam from the fridge, and a loaf of bread from the pantry.

Tía Sofía used to say that God never gave someone more than he or she could handle, and Maria hoped that wasn’t just wishful thinking. Surely she’d reached the end of her rope.

She pulled out the breadboard and laid out the fixings for three lunches, then opted to make one for Trevor, too. She wished there was more she could do for the lonely boy, other than giving him an occasional sandwich and cookies.

But how could she help him when she couldn’t even take care of her own kids?

The wheels of Trevor’s skateboard swished upon the sidewalk as he made his way to the park. He’d gotten a late start this morning, thanks to Katie’s alarm, which didn’t go off and made her late to work.

After she’d gone, he’d looked under the bed, where he kept his skateboard and the gear the lady at the park had given him the other day. Then he’d put on the helmet and pads, just the way she’d shown him how. And now he was on his way to the park.

He used his left leg to push off, then rode along for a while, balancing better than ever before. Not that he was Tony Hawk or anyone, but he didn’t fall so much anymore.

As he neared the intersection that was only a couple of blocks from the park, a skinny teenager approached. He wore a black T-shirt and baggy cargo pants that hung so low at the waist that the top of his white boxers showed.

Trevor was going to skate around him, but the kid stepped in front of him and blocked his way, causing him to lose his balance when he came to a stop.

The big kid crossed his arms. “Hey, dude.”

“What do you want?”

“Where’d you get that skateboard?”

Trevor didn’t answer.

The kid narrowed his eyes and frowned. “What’d you do, steal it?”

“No.”

“Well, it looks just like the one my friend used to have, but his was stolen.”

Blurting out, “Too bad/so sad,” or “Finders-keepers,” came to mind, but Trevor clamped his mouth shut. No need to make the kid mad, but he wasn’t about to give up his skateboard, either. Not without a fight. ’Course he’d probably get his butt kicked.

The kid whipped out a cell phone and made a call. “Tito, it’s me. What did Artie’s skateboard look like? Wasn’t it red and black?”

Trevor’s stomach knotted, as he stooped to pick up his board, then pulled it up against his chest like a shield. No way was he going to give it up just ’cause some dumb teenager said so.

The kid lowered the phone from his ear and looked at Trevor. “Turn it over. I wanna see the bottom. My friend had a decal on his.”

Trevor thought about running, but figured the kid would catch him. Besides, his board didn’t have a decal on the bottom. Just on the top. So he turned it around and showed the kid.

“I guess it isn’t Artie’s,” the kid said into the phone. “There isn’t a flame decal on the bottom.”

There
was
one on the top, though. Trevor’s heart beat so loud he could hear it thumping in his ears.

Instead of moving, the kid just stood there like a big, dumb brick wall.

So Trevor, his heart still pounding like crazy and his body scrambling to act cool, walked around him, clutching his board instead of riding it. If he needed to get away, it would be better to run.

Just then he heard a cell phone ring and the teenager say, “Yeah.”

Trevor picked up his pace.

From behind him, the kid yelled, “Hey, come back here. Let me take a look at the top of that board.”

Trevor ran as fast as he could. For a moment, he thought about heading back home and hiding in the apartment until he felt safe again. But there was no one there. Katie had already left. Besides, she still didn’t even know he
had
a skateboard.

The park, it seemed, was best. Maybe, with all the people there, one of the adults wouldn’t mind if he sort of hung out by them for a while.