Simple Gifts (10 page)

“Yearly. You're beautiful, Marly. I always tell the truth.”

Wow. He could
still
make my stomach turn cartwheels and land on my liver.

“How's Noel these days?”

Oh man. Just when things were going so well.

“You've never met my daughter, Sara, have you?”

He took a sip from his cup. “I haven't, but I'd like to. You need to bring her around sometime.”

“She's one busy lady.” I chattered on about Petey, Emma Grace, and Pete, hoping he hadn't noticed I'd switched subjects. He let me rattle on until I finally stopped, drew a deep breath, and returned to the earlier conversation. “You turned out pretty nice yourself.”

“Have you had
your
eyes checked lately?”

“Yearly. I have near perfect eyesight with my glasses.”

We sat in silence, enjoying the quiet reprieve. He'd devoured the energy bar in three bites and now lay back on the ground, resting. Blue jays chattered overhead. Someone had set up a large smoker, and the smell of burning charcoal drifted on the wind.

“Heard the town wants to dedicate a statue of your dad.”

My heart sank. This town! You couldn't sneeze without someone handing you a tissue.

“Rumors fly, don't they?”

“In Parnass Springs? Like an eagle. Are you going to do it?”

“No.”

“Figured you wouldn't.”

“Not for the reason that you're thinking.”

“Oh? What reason am I thinking?”

“You're thinking that I don't want to because I was…ashamed of Herman.” What could have given him that idea? Just because I'd cried on his shoulder, figuratively speaking, at least once a day when we were young.

“Why would I think you were ashamed of Herman?”

When he said Herman, in that reflective tone, it sounded strange.
Dad.
The word stuck to my tongue. I'd rarely thought of Herman as
Dad
, only as someone I wanted to avoid. I plucked a weed and turned it over and over in my hand. “Were you here when Herman…”

“Got sick?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. I visited him every day while he was in the hospital. I got special permission to take Butchie in to see him a couple of times.”

I smiled, tears gathering in my eyes. “That was kind of you.”

“He loved his dogs. The last Butchie died a month after your father—you knew that?”

I knew. Ingrid had written and told me about the dog's death. “Wasn't it unusual for Herman to catch a cold and die so suddenly?”

“His cold turned into pneumonia and took him quickly. It happens sometimes.”

“He was fairly young, I guess. By today's longevity standards.”

“Sixty-one is young. He just went to sleep, Marly, and never woke up. Ingrid made certain he didn't suffer.”

Tears dripped off the end of my nose and dissolved into my apple. “I refused to dedicate the statue because I don't want to revive the past. It's just pointless to invite further controversy about Herman. It's too hurtful.”

“Hurtful for whom?” He rolled over and propped his hand on his cheek. Dark eyes met mine.

“For Herman.” That's who I was concerned about, right?

“Herman was happy. He loved the town, and most of them loved him. I couldn't count the number of times I saw him working alongside somebody in their flower or vegetable garden or helping paint City Hall or a public building. He stopped by my clinic almost every day and swept up for me or took care of a sick animal while I was out of the office.”

White-hot heat flooded my face. “That was the problem. He was always around. Underfoot. Didn't that bother you? It bothered other people.”

“Did it bother you?”

“No.” I paused. “Sometimes, but I loved him, Vic. I'm beginning to realize how much, and I was family. He was my responsibility.”

“Yours?” He chuckled. “He thought you were
his
responsibility, and he worried about it.”

“Impossible. He was a child. He knew only childish things. It was my and Ingrid's responsibility to keep people from hurting him, and we tried. But as much as the people in this town loved him, we heard the whispers and saw the stares.”

I could just see it now. If I let them put up a statue of Herman, the stories would flow.

“I remember the time Herman went to Marlene's prom and danced with all her friends. She must have been so embarrassed!”…“He molested that young woman.”

The ugly taunts I remembered well—too well. Herman was at peace. I wanted him to remain that way. No statue.

Vic reached over and grasped my hand. Electrical currents shot through me as I met his eyes, emotion tightening my throat. “You don't have to convince me. I knew how you felt about Herman.”

“Did you?” I'd sensed that deep down he hadn't known, that he had questioned my feelings. My love for my father was obligatory, and yes, that love mixed with embarrassment had ruled my life. But I was over that now. I'd started to see Herman in a new light.

And no one, including me, was going to ridicule him again.

Ingrid tired shortly after the picnic and wanted to go home before the fireworks started. That was okay with me; I was bushed. I settled her, then went home and curled up on Aunt Beth's sofa, prepared to watch an old Hepburn movie. The cell phone interrupted my plans.

“Mrs. Queens?”

“Yes?” I'd expected Sara. This was a male voice, sort of gruff, not young.

“Winston Little.”

“Ah, yes.” And who was Winston Little? If I was supposed to remember him, I'd dropped the ball. Maybe Aunt Ingrid's mental confusion was contagious.

“Chairman of the statue committee?”

“The who…what?” The statue. In my furor, I'd completely forgotten the statue.

“I've been looking forward to meeting you. We've much to talk about.”

I couldn't think of a thing to say unless it was a declaration that they were going to build a statue of Herman over my dead body. I didn't care what Mr. Little wanted; I had a few wants myself.

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

I searched for an excuse, trying to come up with a reason why I was occupied. I could say I was going to Joe's party, but that wasn't until evening. Unfortunately, I was brain-dead, and Mr. Little moved into the gap.

“What about now? I know it's getting late, but we can be there in a few minutes.”

“Be where?”

“At your house—we'd be glad to meet you there.”

And let them see the tattered, sun-rotted drapes downstairs, the stained ceiling that hadn't been replaced yet, the dripping faucet and cracked wallpaper; the rocks still crowding the living room. No way were they going to meet here tonight, after the day I'd had. “I'm sorry, but that won't be possible.” Besides, I didn't want a meeting.

Mr. Little seemed to expect my objection. “I see. Well, we can move to plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“I always have a plan B. In case I need a backup.”

I had a hunch Winston Little would. “And what is plan B?”

“We'll meet at the shelter Monday morning. Is nine o'clock a good time? We have a magnificent meeting room. Just pull to the rear and park.”

Before I could object, the man hung up. I stared at the wall for a couple of seconds before pulling myself together enough to replace the receiver in the cradle.

Sunday night I still hadn't cooled. I wanted to talk to Joe, but I didn't want to dampen his celebration. After forty years shepherding one town, he deserved the spotlight tonight. With few exceptions, the town turned out to help celebrate the pastor. Vic was chatting with Lana Hughes in a quiet corner. The sudden jealousy stunned me. He had every right to see Lana, and probably, if I were picking an ideal woman for the man I once loved more than life, Lana would be a top contender. But I wasn't picking his wife. I was grieving my foolishness while smiling, keeping a stiff upper lip, attending his father's retirement party, sipping punch, and trying to avoid the constant stream of advice bombarding me from well-meaning acquaintances.

“Don't blame you a bit for refusing the statue, Marlene.” Joanie Miller, one of Joe's flock, winked. “I say, let sleeping dogs lie.”

Woof, woof.

“Marlene, honey!” Shirley Lott, Joe's neighbor, cornered me at the punch bowl. “Everybody loved Herman. He was an angel among us. He'll never be forgotten. Erect the statue, sweetie.”

Nodding, I smiled and moved on to seek privacy in a small alcove. I started when someone whispered in my ear. “How come the prettiest girl in the room is hiding?”

I turned and went into Joe's arms. “Oh, Joe, it's so hard.”

“What's hard, honey?”

Straightening, I waved my hand, fanning away superfluous tears. I couldn't tell him it was excruciating to watch Vic with another woman. I was supposedly married to Noel. Why had I ever started—or worse,
continued—
the senseless deception?
Pride. Your pride, Marlene
. The day, the weekend, had been too much—too many unwanted memories to deal with.

Taking my arm, Joe threaded me through the crowd and out the front door. Flashes of lightning lit the west; a welcome breeze ruffled new foliage. He pulled his hankie from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. “Did you see Fred Faraday? I know he wanted to say hi.”

I wiped my nose. The Faradays had been Ingrid and Joe's neighbors for years. Fred's motor scooter was his pride and joy. When I was little I used to say I was going to buy a scooter just like Fred's when I grew up. He'd taken me for rides around the block on long summer nights. I loved riding so much that I graduated to dirt bikes and motorcycles, and by the time I was fifteen, I knew how to ride a cycle as well as most men. Between Vic's and Fred's wheels, I was a born biker. “I haven't seen him, but I will.”

“Want to rant?”

I sniffed, wiping at moisture in my eyes. “It's your celebration. I don't want to spoil it.”

“You're my best girl. You'd never spoil anything for me.” He took my hand and sat me down on the bench. “It's all this talk about Herman, isn't it?”

“I loved him, Joe.”

He nodded, thoughtful now. “Of course you did. And he knew it, Marlene. But he also knew he wasn't the typical parent. And you knew he wasn't the typical father, and at times you felt cheated.”

True. Cheated, distressed, and confused. Why had God picked me to be born to two simpleminded people who weren't capable of parenting? Who couldn't even blow their noses without help? Other kids had wonderful homes with fathers who didn't embarrass them with childish acts. Mothers who cooked pot roast and mashed potatoes. My mother…well, I'd never met my mother. Never wanted to meet her. I knew practically nothing about her except the occasional overheard conversation between Ingrid and Beth. I knew the woman's family highly resented Herman and his perpetrated act on their help-less daughter. Maybe that's why they never sought grandpar-ents' rights with me. Odd, though. My mother was their only child. One would think they'd have relished a granddaughter, a healthy child capable of giving and receiving love.

“The distasteful matter is over and done.” Ingrid had repeated the Parishes' words to Beth, unaware that I was listening in the next room. “The child is dead to us.”

That would be me. Marlene. Dead. Not exactly doting grandparent chatter.

I blew my nose. “Am I wrong, Joe? Should I let them put a statue of Herman on the animal-shelter lawn?”

“I think the gesture is appropriate, not meant for harm, but I suspect you don't want to reopen old wounds. Am I correct?”

“I'm not worried about my wounds; I've moved past that. I think I understand Herman and his ways more now than I did then, but I'm afraid the town hasn't changed. They might have loved Herman, but behind his back they whispered unkind things—things I heard and that he heard.”