Pickin Clover (11 page)

For the rest of the evening, they were terribly polite to each other.

Two days later, with the morning sun beating down on her and the smell of lilacs from a neighbor’s yard filling her nostrils, Polly remembered every detail of that miserable evening, and in spite of the blue sky and fresh air, she felt frustrated and angered by it all over again.

She was wearing denim shorts and a checked shirt, with a billed cap covering her hair. She sat perched high on a scaffold that rested against the side of her mother’s house and wielded a scraper, attacking the blistered, dried bubbles of ugly gray paint.

Far below her—it was shocking how high up she was—Jerome was talking to his daughter as he replaced the last pickets in the fence he’d repaired. He’d also fixed the railing to the back door, and emptied the front porch of its garbage. Impatient to get on with the painting, Polly had offered to start scraping.

The good thing about being up that high and doing mindless physical work was the time it gave her to think about everything, Polly mused. She wrinkled her nose and admitted that the bad thing about it was exactly the same.

She thought about her and Michael and their diminishing sex life. With every fiber of her being, she’d wanted him to make love to her the other evening. She’d felt warm and loving and eager and sexy when he took her in his arms. But the damned business about the condom had acted like a dose of ice water.

Resentment added extra energy to her scraping. Why had Michael spoiled it for them? Why couldn’t he just have let passion overwhelm them? The way he used to. Snippets of erotic scenes played in her head—the time they’d made love outside on the lawn three summers before, with the sprinkler’s rhythmic arc soaking them every few moments, their laughter wild and desperate because they couldn’t stop long enough to move out of the water.

And the time at the Fieldings’ party, when they’d looked at each other and terrible desire had sizzled between them, so that she’d pretended a headache and they’d hurried away. They hadn’t even made it home; Michael had driven into a park and they’d made love like two teenagers, writhing in the back seat of the car, trying to stay sane enough to watch for the lights of a patrol car and in the end, blinded with pleasure, not caring.

“How’s it going up there?”

Polly jumped, grabbed the side of the scaffold, and almost dropped the scraper.

“Steady, there. Sorry I scared you.” Jerome looked up at her, eyes masked behind sunglasses. “I’m finished this fence now, so I’ll be right up. I’m just gonna get a drink of water first. It’s hot as blazes this morning.”

“It is hot. And there’s more to this scraping job than I expected.” Like X-rated love scenes from another life.

“It won’t take long with two of us,” he assured her. “You want me to bring you up a drink?”

“Oh, please.” She wiped a gloved hand across her forehead. “I brought a case of spring water. It’s in the fridge. Have some yourself and bring me up a bottle.”

Isabelle wasn’t home. She’d announced when Polly arrived at nine that morning that she was going shopping and then out for lunch with friends, and she’d sailed off, wearing a blue seersucker suit and a smart straw hat.

Isabelle always looked elegant; it never failed to amaze Polly that her mother could emerge from the chaos of her bedroom looking bandbox fresh.

A few moments later Jerome climbed the ladder and swung himself onto the scaffolding with athletic grace. He handed Polly the bottled water and then settled to the job of scraping.

“Daddy, see my bubbles?” Clover was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in the middle of the backyard with a basin of soapy water and a bubble wand Isabelle had given her that morning. Polly had heard Jerome telling her a moment ago that she was not allowed anywhere near the side of the house where the scaffolding was, that it was dangerous.

Now, however, the little girl slid off the lawn chair and made her way over until she stood directly beneath the ladder. “Daddy, I wanna come up with you,” she whined.

Polly looked down at Clover, and it was all she could do not to snap at the child, to order her away from the ladder. Just as Jerome had said, it was dangerous.

“Move back, sweetheart.” There wasn’t even a trace of impatience in Jerome’s tone, only concern. “Remember what Daddy told you, you’re not to be near the ladder.”

“But I want to come up where you are,” she insisted, putting one foot on the first rung.

Again, Polly felt the urge to reprimand the little girl, but Jerome patiently coaxed her away, promising he’d come down and talk to her if she did what he asked.

She did, and he clambered down, then swung Clover up in his arms and reassured her in a low, calm voice, before planting kisses on her neck and making her giggle.

Polly watched, frowning. Why did Clover irritate her so? How could she dislike a small child? She sipped at her water and reasoned with herself, observing the scene on the lawn below as Jerome settled Clover once again with her bubbles. It was natural, after all, for a little girl to get bored and want her daddy’s attention. But it would slow the job considerably if it happened all the time, Polly thought, feeling resentful.

“She gets bored. She really oughta be with other kids, instead of trailing around with me,” Jerome said when he was once again on the scaffold. He started scraping, his muscular arms making easy work of the blistered paint.

“You got kids, Polly?”

Her steady scraping faltered. She should have expected the question, but she hadn’t. And how was Jerome to know it was the most difficult of questions for her?

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I had one daughter, named Susannah. She died a year ago last February when she was nine.”

“That’s a rough one.” Jerome was sympathetic, but he didn’t seem to be ill at ease the way so many people were when Polly told them about Susannah.

“I had a brother who died when he was eight,” he added after a moment. “Billy was just eleven months older than me. We were as close as twins. We always shared a bed, and we used to wear the same clothes. I still think about him, imagine what he’d look like as a man—how tall he’d be, what his voice would sound like. I suppose you do that with Susannah, too, huh? Sort of imagine her growing up?”

Polly was astounded. She gaped at him. “Yeah,” she managed to say. “I do imagine that.”

His complete understanding had caught her off guard. She’d become so accustomed to people’s awkwardness when she talked of Susannah, so aware of their relief when the subject changed and they could speak about something else. How absolutely unexpected to find in this young workman the acceptance so lacking in her friends.

Not just your friends, either, she corrected herself with bitter honesty. Even Michael avoids conversations about Susannah. You know he does. He has from the moment of her death. The fact that her husband wouldn’t verbally share with her their precious memories of their child was one of the things that hurt her the most deeply.

“What did she die of?” Jerome’s wide, sweeping strokes with the scraper formed a pattern for Polly to follow, as did his ease with this conversation.

“She had a brain tumor.”

“Billy had leukemia.”

“Were there other kids in your family, Jerome?”

“Oh, yeah. Seven of us—four boys and three girls—but we didn’t grow up together,” he confided. “Right after Billy died Social Services took the rest of us into care. We grew up in separate foster homes.”

Polly tried to imagine what that would have been like for a little boy, and she wondered, as well, why it had happened.

“It must have been really hard on you, losing your brother and then your whole family being separated like that.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. I realize now that it was for the best. See, my mom and pop were alcoholics. Living with them got really hairy sometimes. We never had enough food or anything in the house. We couldn’t count on them being there. I used to think when I was a kid that Billy got sick because we were hungry so much of the time. Of course I know now that had nothing to do with it, but you get funny ideas when you’re little.” He glanced down at his daughter, playing with a watering can and the hose. “Clover asked me the other day if her mom went away because she was a bad girl.”

“What did you tell her?”

“It really threw me at first. I didn’t know she felt that way. I finally said that her mommy loved her a lot, and she didn’t want to leave her, but she knew that Clover would be fine with me. And that daddies never, ever, leave their little girls.” The hard, determined edge to his voice revealed more than his words.

“That was a really good answer, Jerome.”

“Thanks.” He gave Polly a grateful look and a wide grin. “Kids can really put you on the spot at times, huh?”

“They really can.” Polly smiled and shook her head. “I remember Susannah asking me about a friend who was pregnant, why she had such a fat tummy. I explained that she had a baby inside her, and the next day Susannah went up to another woman who was quite overweight and wanted to know if she had babies in there.”

Jerome laughed, and a warm sense of companionship came over Polly. For the next hour, interrupted only by Clover’s frequent demands, they scraped and talked, sharing stories of their childhoods.

Polly found herself able to confide in Jerome, to relate with total honesty how Isabelle and Dylan had fought and separated and made up, how insecure she and Norah had been as a result of their parents’ chaotic life-style.

He seemed to understand, and he told his own stories of being in a series of foster homes, never knowing how long he’d be staying with any single family. “It leaves you feeling that you’re not as important as other people, that you’re sort of a throwaway kid.”

“That’s exactly how Norah and I used to feel. Do you see your brothers and sisters at all, Jerome?”

He shook his head. “We lost touch with one another, getting shuffled around in different foster homes. I know where they are now. We exchange Christmas cards, but that’s about the extent of it. Two of my sisters are up in northern B.C. The other one’s living in Alaska. My brothers both joined the Canadian army. They’re out in Ontario somewhere. They’re all married, and I’ve got a pile of nieces and nephews I’ve never met. It’s too bad none of them live here. It would be good for Clover to have relatives nearby, aunts and uncles and cousins.”

“Susannah adored my sister, Norah. They were really good buddies. Norah was such a great aunt." Polly deliberately didn’t mention Isabelle; her mother had been anything but a doting grandmother.

“What does your sister do?”

“She’s a nurse on the obstetrical ward at St. Joe’s hospital. She’s not married. And Michael was an only child, so there weren’t cousins for Susannah. You’ll meet Norah. She’s gonna drop by when she gets off shift this afternoon.”

They climbed down the ladder at lunchtime, and sitting at the old picnic table in one corner of the yard, they ate the bagged lunches they’d brought. Polly made a real effort to befriend Clover, admiring a picture the little girl had drawn and offering her some of her trail mix, but the child was aloof, eyeing Polly suspiciously and huddling against Jerome on the wooden bench.

After lunch, Jerome put Clover down for a nap on the seat of his truck. He’d brought a pillow and a blanket, and he sat beside his daughter, stroking her hair, quietly singing her a country song until she was asleep.

Polly watched and listened from her perch high up on the side of the house, thinking what a familiar, intimate scene it was. It reminded Polly of how she used to rub Susannah’s back at bedtime, while Michael would make up some farfetched story. The memory wasn’t painful, although it made Polly nostalgic. It felt good to recall happy times with her daughter.

Jerome left his daughter sleeping and joined Polly. In another hour, with Clover still sleeping, they’d finished the scraping and began painting the trim at the top of the house. The intense bright green wasn’t the color Polly would have chosen, but it was the only one Isabelle would agree to, and as the dingy brown began to disappear beneath the cheerful paint, Polly felt elated.

“Maybe I’ve got a whole new career happening here,” she joked. “I could start my own business— painting houses.”

“Better wait until we’ve done at least half this one before you hire yourself out. You might just change your mind.” He grinned across at her. “So what brilliant career are you giving up for this painting gig?”

It was another question that always made Polly uncomfortable.

“I never had a real career,” she confessed. “I went to art school instead of college, then I got married, and I never really worked at a regular job.”

“What kind of art do you do?”

“Mostly I drew faces and bodies, life studies in charcoal, some watercolors. But I’ve stopped.”

“Why’s that?”

“I can’t seem to do it anymore. I...I lost wherever it came from when Susannah died. I think I did my best work after I had her, and all during the years she was growing up. I’d take photos of her and draw from them when she was napping, and then when she started school I went to a life drawing class a couple times a week.” Her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. “I’ve tried, but whatever talent I had is just gone.”