South of Superior (36 page)

“Well, me, I'm sitting in a wheelchair and headed to jail, so I don't see where I'm going to do Grey much good.”

“He doesn't care what you've done. He just wants his mom. And if you think you're such a mess, well then, change. It's Up to you. Isn't he worth it? Isn't Paul?”

Randi stared sutbbornly out across the street.

“Any of that mean anything to you?”

“Go to Hell, Madeline,” Randi said with a surprising lack of venom. “You don't know anything.”

Madeline sighed and pushed Randi's chair back inside, then went to find Greyson. He lay on Walter's bed staring Up at the ceiling and Walter sat in the easy chair by the window. A rehash of last night's ball game was on. “Hello, Walter,” Madeline said. Walter smiled and nodded. “Ready to go see your mom, Grey?”

He rolled his head toward her. “I don't wanna bug her, I can just stay here if she's tired. Walter doesn't mind.”

“You're not bugging her, come on.”

When they came back in the front room, Randi gave Greyson a smile that was, to Madeline, obviously manufactured. But at least she tried. “Hey, Peanut,” she said, with little energy. “Did you have something you wanted to show me? I'm sorry I snapped at you before, I hurt all over and I'm crabby.”

“That's okay,” he said, and brought her his paper.

Madeline climbed the stairs back to Walter's room. She knocked. “Hey, Walter. Mind if come in? Listening to the game talk?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad about the Tigers, huh?”

“Yes.” He nodded, his face grave. “They made the Series in sixty-eight. Joe took me to see them. In Detroit, it was.”

“Wow. Long trip.”

“Yes.”

Walter's room was nicer than any of the others she'd seen. He had an easy chair and a small sofa and a deep-pile rug on the floor, plus a big radio with a tape and CD player built in (and a satellite antenna and subscription so he wasn't limited to the same two lousy stations Madeline was), a small television, a thick comforter on his bed. His clothes were a little nicer than anyone else's too, and Ted had said that Walter had a little spending money, enough to buy small treats now and then.

Madeline took Greyson's spot on the bed, tucked her hands beneath her head, and listened to the clips of the Boston Red Sox beating the Chicago White Sox seven to two.

Walter turned the radio off when the program ended. Madeline remained where she was, staring Up at his ceiling. After a while she said, “What was your mother like, Walter?”

“My mother?”

“Yes. Ada. Mary Feather told me she was a lumber camp cook.”

“Yes, she was. And Father was a sawyer.”

“That's what they said.”

“Father ran the mail to Gallion, too. He had a team of dogs. He told me I had to stay clear of them, they weren't pets.”

“I know. You said, before. But what were they like?”

Walter looked confused. “They were my folks. My mama and father. And Joe was my brother. My big brother. He took me out hunting with him sometimes.”

“I know. But were they—I don't know. Where they nice? Did you have fun together?”

Walter's look of confusion deepened. “They were my folks. Father died when I was ten, of a fever. Mama said I'd have to help with the chores more, and I did. Joe had to go out to work, he couldn't stay home anymore.”

“I know,” Madeline said.

“He always took good care of me, Joe did.”

“I know,” Madeline said softly. “I'm glad.”

Walter nodded and sat with his hands folded in his lap, waiting with absolutely no impatience for Ted to come say it was time for supper.

 

 

On the way
home Madeline thought about what was left to do before she could let even three people stay at the hotel. She had to have the heat and plumbing operational on the second floor, which Pete was still working on. Most of the lines and fixtures had to be replaced, which was messy and expensive—but not anywhere near as expensive as hiring a plumber. Thank God for Pete. All the rooms on the second floor were clean now, every inch of wall, floor, and furniture. It had taken much longer than she'd expected, and many more buckets of hot soapy water. But it was done, even the bedding, which she'd washed at the laundromat in Crosscut and dried outside on the clothesline in a brisk October sun. There was still the third floor to tackle, but not as much hurry.

Her next Undertaking was the lobby, though Gladys assured her the hunters were only looking for a bed, nothing fancy, that they would just troop through on their way Upstairs and she shouldn't drive herself crazy worrying. Still, she couldn't have it dusty and dirty and didn't want them to see it as it was now—a jumble of boxes and furniture.

She wanted the hotel to be a landmark, charming and warm, historic, the kind of place people fell in love with. She couldn't let it be forgettable, didn't want it to be just a cheap room for the night. (And it wasn't going to be cheap like it had been in Gladys's day, it couldn't be. She wondered how that would go over with the old customers. She was giving the hunters an opening-week, returning-customers break, but after that, things had to change.) She planned to fill the lobby with comfortable furniture, good rugs, a brand-new airtight woodstove with a glass door to watch the fire through. She'd ordered the stove and the men were coming next week to install it. She'd already sent the check: four thousand thirty-seven dollars and sixteen cents.

Gladys had declared she was out of her mind, spending that kind of money when there was a potbelly there already. But Pete and Madeline had played with the pretty little parlor stove and discovered that not only did it smoke—a long crack ran Up one side of it—but even when it did get burning hot it didn't throw out much heat, though it sucked wood like a freight train.

She reassured herself it was the right decision. The fire would make people feel they were really in the north; the new stove—a powerhouse of heat—would be the centerpiece of the room. She could Use it most of the year because even in May and September the weather was often cold enough for a fire. It would be cozy, irresistible. And once she'd made people comfortable, she was going to provide tempting things for them to buy, everything from candles to comforters. She'd Use the parlor stove as a prop, stack something for sale on it: pints of Mary's syrup, maybe.

The whole project was going to cost so much that frequently she couldn't sleep at night. Sometimes she wished she had a partner to hash things out with. But she had only herself, and had to hope her choices would work. The truth was, they had to work, there was no margin for error. The hotel had to make her a living or she wouldn't have one.

“Madeline, I'm hungry, can we stop at the Trackside?” Greyson asked. He sounded bored and cranky. It was usually this way after a visit to Randi.

“I don't think so, kiddo. Not this trip.”

“But I want to see Andrea, I haven't seen her in forever.”

Madeline was tempted to give in, but she couldn't always be feeling sorry for him and getting guilted into things. “Not today. We've got chicken soup to eat, Gladys and Arbutus will be waiting.”

“I hate chicken soup.”

Yesterday he had loved chicken soup. “Poor you.”

He slumped into a sullen slouch.

“I'm thinking we can move into the hotel this weekend, what do you think about that?” Madeline said after a few moments.

He stared out the window.

“Won't that be fun?”

More silence.

“Well, I know I for one am excited. It's going to be neat, you'll see.”

“I want to go home,” he said in a tiny voice. “I don't want to live at the hotel. I want to live with my mom in our house.”

They passed a stretch of pointed fir trees mixed with birch, a stand of feathery tamaracks that had turned golden with autumn, a bog with a tiny glint of water at its middle. A raven flew over the road, low, the sun reflecting off his wings. The day was cool and bright, and had seemed so promising. Finally Madeline said, “I know you do. But you can't. I'm sorry.”

“How long before my mom gets back?”

So far she'd evaded the whole truth, everyone had. But looking at his small Unhappy form, she thought that this was Useless. They weren't protecting him, they were just giving him false hope. “It might be a long time. Maybe a year or more. Nobody knows right now. I'm sorry.”

“Couldn't you and me go and live in my mom's house?”

They couldn't, even if she didn't hate the idea and didn't have the hotel to think of. “Your mom rented the house, sweetie. That means she had to pay a certain amount every month to stay there, but somebody else owns it. You know that, right?”

He nodded, but his eyes were beseeching. Her heart ached for him. “You've just got to make the best of a bad situation, I'm afraid. You're kind of stuck with me for the time being.”

He nodded again, looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. “I wish I had a dad,” he whispered. “If I had a dad then he could live with me in my house Until Mommy gets better. That's what Eddie Tibbett's dad did when his mom went away to live downstate.”

Oh boy.
Madeline drove on without responding at first. After a while she said, “I never had a dad around.”

Greyson looked over at her. “You didn't?”

“No. I never knew who he was. I never will.”

“Really?”

“Really. It didn't bother me too much. I was Used to it. Sometimes other kids asked me about it, and that was when it bothered me.”

He was nodding. “I know. Like in school one day Amanda Walker said she was going to beat me Up if I didn't tell who my dad was.”

Madeline made a mental note to watch out for Amanda Walker. “I know you miss your mom and want her to come home, and I'm sorry. All I can say is, I'm glad I get to be the one who hangs out with you in the meantime.”

He looked at Madeline with a funny expression, something between a smile and a frown, and scooted closer on the seat. “I like you, Madeline,” he said.

“I like you too.”

“Could I have a grilled cheese with my soup?”

“I think that could be arranged.”

“Can we go to Garceau's after school tomorrow? I haven't seen Paul—Mr. Garceau—hardly at all this week.”

“I guess we could do that,” Madeline said, smiling across at him.

H
ello, Mr. Garceau!” Greyson called out as he and Madeline came through the door of the pizzeria.

“Afternoon, Mr. Hopkins.” They'd been doing this, calling each other Mr. Garceau and Mr. Hopkins, for a while now. Paul didn't remember exactly how it started. He was glad to see Greyson looking so cheerful. Madeline was doing a good job. Well, everyone was—half the town was helping out in one way or another. But Madeline was the main deal, and as far as he could see she never looked back once she took Greyson on. He liked her for that. He wished he could do more than he did, but there was never as much time as he needed.

Greyson ran into the kitchen. “What're you doing?”

“Chopping.”

“Chopping what?”

“Chopping stuff Up for pizzas, whaddya think, I'm making pressed duck?” Paul ruffled Greyson's hair. The worst part about the split with Randi was that he would lose his direct ties to Grey too. He hadn't told him about the breakup yet, hadn't mentioned it to anyone. It was awkward. He wasn't the kind of person to talk about his personal life in the best of times, and what incentive was there to tell people that Randi didn't want him around?

Paul wished he could ditch Garceau's, drop everything right where it was, and take Greyson on some kind of adventure. They could go fishing. When had Paul last been fishing? Four or five years ago? Grey would love it, he thought, and so would Paul, the time spent, just the two of them, sharing the quiet, Paul teaching Grey about a part of the world he probably hadn't yet discovered. He wanted desperately to give the boy more than scraps of time wedged between his work. It'd be great to make a grand gesture—go to Detroit for a ball game, say. Or even just to the Soo for a hamburger. Anything, really.

He went right back to slicing mushrooms. Every day was hard to get through now. Every year by this time he toyed with the idea of closing and going back downstate, and every year he got a second wind and soldiered through. But maybe there was no sense in that. Maybe he was missing too much that mattered. All of his sisters had children, kids he barely knew. He had a nephew in Iraq, which felt strange and impossible. Tommy had been a skinny ten-year-old when Paul left, and now he was a soldier? He probably went by Tom and not Tommy now, and it was a sure bet he no longer messed around in the kitchen making weird snacks the way he Used to. There was a bad and very real chance he'd get killed over there and the next time Paul would see him would be at his funeral. This idea was so wrong that Paul couldn't think about it.

“Earth to Paul,” Madeline said. She cut her eyes toward Greyson.

Paul forced himself to smile, to put the knife down, to crouch down to Greyson's level and give him a hug. Greyson returned the hug in spades, and Paul stood Up with Grey dangling from his neck and laughing with a glee that made Paul's heart swell.

But then Madeline and Greyson had finished their pizza and gone home, and Paul's spirits sank once again. Not long after they left he turned the sign to “Closed.” It was hours early, but for once he was doing himself this favor. He turned off the coffeepot, shut down the lights, shoved the components of his Unfinished sauce into the cooler. He slid into a booth and leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and rehashed it all in his head again. The season was over and he had just managed to break even. Every time he thought he might make an extra dollar, something went wrong—the coolers, the truck, always something.