Summer Snow (11 page)

Their decision was based primarily on an enormous, turn-of-the-century three-story Victorian that graced the corner of Eleventh Street and Hamilton Road. I had been told that they worked magic on the house, restoring the sagging wraparound porch, stripping and repainting the gorgeous cedar siding, and otherwise breathing life into arguably one of the most beautiful buildings in town. But they'd had a much harder time carving a niche for themselves in the hearts of their neighbors and community.

Bluntly said, they were total snobs. In a close-knit, hardworking, and no-nonsense town like Mason, Eli and Margaret's superior attitudes and affectations did not endear them to many people. Maybe they regretted not settling in Glendale, where their welcome would have been much more enthusiastic. Maybe they would have stayed in Iowa if things had been different. But when they left after only three years, no one mourned or missed them. Almost twenty years later, I doubted many people even remembered them—or their lovely daughter. Even when Janice stayed behind to marry my father in complete opposition to her parents' compellingly voiced wishes, her actions did not assure her any friends. In fact, most lamented the fact that one of their own—the sweet and studious Daniel DeSmit—had fallen prey to her devious charms. Janice had no one in Mason, and while I wished it could remain that way, I couldn't escape the fact that she should, if nothing else, have us.

Grandma and I stared at the pond for a few minutes, watching the wind run trembling fingers through the barren branches of the trees along the water's edge. The shallow lake was nearly frozen solid, covered in peaked, diminutive waves that were whipped up by the wind and frozen in the same icy breath. I tried to picture Janice and Simon spending the night here, overlooking the water and following the moon's slow progression in flawed reflection across the uneven surface. It was a fate I couldn't resign even Janice to.

“Let's wait,” I said.

Grandma shook her head. “Let's go have supper at the truck stop. We'll come back later.”

The south edge of Mason boasted a dumpy little truck stop and café that was undoubtedly the very restaurant where Simon had had pancakes for breakfast. Had it been only two days ago? I pictured them sharing a booth in that greasy spoon, a dingy place with perpetually dirty windows and a menu full of fried foods and breakfast items. Even a side salad, the healthiest option available, came disguised beneath a mountain of shredded cheese, buttery homemade croutons, and great dollops of nearly any dressing imaginable. The house special was a local favorite: mayonnaise, sugar, and a little vinegar whisked into a thick and frothy substance that resembled vanilla pudding. It was delicious. In spite of myself, my mouth watered at the thought of the beer-battered onion rings, and I wondered if Simon had experienced the pleasure of tasting them.

Although I thought of Janice and Simon the entire way there, I wasn't ready for what we saw when we walked through the door. They were seated in one of the red vinyl booths only feet from where we stood on the soaked and grimy rug immediately inside the grease-scented building. Grandma hummed a little note unconsciously—a distinctive mannerism alerting me that she had half expected this all along. She always hummed a small note when she was right. I felt stupid for not putting two and two together. It made sense; the vagabond pair could hardly sit in their car all evening and all night, and no one would ever dream to kick them out of the truck stop as long as there was a cup of coffee in front of Janice. They had probably half lived here for days.

Grandma reached for my hand and squeezed it briefly, asking me with her eyes if we could proceed.

I took a deep breath, nodded.

When we stepped to the table, Janice slid her coffee cup toward the edge and continued to look at the bifold dessert menu. “Just a warm-up,” she said softly.

I didn't know how to respond, but I didn't have to because Simon looked up from ramming two Hot Wheels into each other and exclaimed, “Mrs. DeSmit! Julia!”

Janice's head jerked up. Her eyes were defiant, full of suspicion, and defensive all at once.

I remembered those eyes, and for a moment everything made sense. This was how I knew Janice; this was what I had daydreamed about before she appeared on our doorstep—melancholy daydreams without closure, simple wonderings of what it would be like to see her again. In my mind, we always circled each other like wary animals, testing and sniffing the air before admitting we would never be able to do more than move around each other. Close enough to touch, forever distant. I could deal with this woman. I did not understand her, but I knew her.

I began to harden in response to her, but just as my soul shifted to accommodate the inflexible mother I thought I knew, her face fell. Immediately she looked defeated, sad—she was again the woman on the porch. I could see her more clearly after a few days of coming to terms with her return. Janice looked misused to me, her mistakes less her own than the sorry consequences of what had been done to her. But what had been done to her? Surely no hurt, no amount of misunderstanding could exonerate her, magically switch her role from offender to victim. I could not bring myself to pity her.

“Nellie,” Janice said slowly, blinking as though she had just come in from the dark. “Julia, hi. Please have a seat.” She slid deeper into the booth and motioned for Simon to do the same.

Grandma shook her head. “No, thank you, Janice. It looks like you two are about done.”

“I had a glass of chocolate milk,” Simon said proudly, tipping the empty Styrofoam cup toward us as evidence of how much he had enjoyed the treat.

“Aren't you lucky?” Grandma smiled. “When Julia was little, we only had chocolate milk on special occasions: birthdays, Christmas.  …”

“Mom says I can have chocolate milk whenever I want,” Simon boasted. “It may be chocolate, but it's still milk.”

“I guess calcium is calcium no matter how you get it,” I muttered. Janice had not bothered to buy me chocolate milk when I was five.

Janice cleared her throat almost as if I had spoken my silent contemplation. “What can I do for you ladies?” she asked politely. “Are you here for supper?”

Grandma reached out to touch the scruff of Simon's unkempt hair. She rubbed it absently as she looked meaningfully at Janice and said, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. I'm glad we found you here.”

“You want to talk to me?” Janice repeated uncertainly.

“Alone,” Grandma clarified, turning to smile at Simon. “Can you stay here with Julia? I'd like to talk to your mom alone for a minute.”

Simon nodded seriously. “Here, Julia,” he said, handing me one of the toy cars. “I'll use the red one and you take this one. It's called the Gov'ner. That's what it says on the bottom.”

I accepted the car hesitantly. I hadn't planned on Grandma and Janice working this whole thing out on their own. The conversation should have included me. I should have had the opportunity to speak my mind, to let Janice know that though we were inviting her into our home, she had not been forgiven—all had not been forgotten. But I couldn't make a scene in front of Simon. Janice crept tentatively out of her seat and I resentfully took her place.

“We'll be back in no time,” Grandma assured us. By the slant of her half smile I could almost believe that they were going to speak of pleasant things—surprise parties or occasions for chocolate milk, maybe. But I knew better.

I watched them walk away and was stunned to see Grandma grip Janice's elbow as though she were supporting the younger woman. Their heads were almost exactly the same height, and from my angle they could have been any mother and daughter, silver head tilted toward fair. They looked almost comfortable.

“How are you doing?” Simon said conversationally, jerking my head back to the table and the boy that shared my blood.

“I'm okay,” I answered, cocking an eyebrow at him. He was unusually mature for his age. It was a little disconcerting. “How are you doing?” It was only polite to return the question, even if he was just a preschooler.

Simon thought for a minute. “I'm okay too. Mom says I should tell people that I'm good when they ask me how I am. She says that they don't
really
want to hear how I'm doing. But you said that you were okay, so I can say that I'm okay too.”

Part of me wanted to laugh, but another part found his explanation somehow depressing. “I'm sorry that you're just okay,” I eventually offered. “I hope that next time we see each other you are doing very, very good.”

“Me too!” Simon chimed brightly. “Wanna see how fast my car can race down the ramp?” The somewhat somber mood instantly forgotten, he propped a laminated menu against the windowsill and perched his car at the top. “You catch it before it falls off the table.”

We had only raced the cars down the makeshift slope four or five times when Grandma and Janice returned. I hadn't expected them to come to a conclusion so quickly. I tried to read either woman, but Grandma's smile was fixed and Janice refused to look at me.

“Simon, honey,” Janice said, crouching down, “let's go, all right? I have something to ask you.”

“I want to play with Julia,” Simon complained. It was the first time I had heard his voice border on whiny.

“Later, buddy.” Janice reached for his coat and helped him into it. She stole a glance at me over her shoulder, and in that one look I knew she had accepted Grandma's offer. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or happy.

“I gotta go, Julia,” Simon said. “You can keep the Gov'ner until I see you next time.”

I was disarmed by his generosity. “No, Simon, you keep it. It wouldn't be fun to play with it without you.”

“Okay.” He gave in without much of a fight, accepting the car from my hand. “Next time we'll make an obstacle course.”

“Next time,” I agreed.

When they were gone, Grandma took my hand and led me out to the car. “Janice is going to tell Simon and meet us at home in a half hour or so.”

“She agreed to stay with us?” I asked pointlessly.

Grandma didn't even bother to answer. The same silence accompanied us as we drove the cold highway home.

I insisted on getting the mattress down from the attic myself. A few minutes alone in the chilly air of the poorly insulated loft sounded like a tropical getaway to me. It would be easy, I convinced Grandma. All I had to do was tilt the monstrosity on its side and push it down the stairs. I could tell she wanted to argue, but there was no disagreeing with the edge in my voice. She let me go.

The closed-off storage room was just down the hallway from my bedroom. We nailed an ancient quilt across the door in the winter-time and laid old boards against the bottom to stop drafts from seeping into the house. I pulled the quilt aside and set the boards against it to hold it in place. The room was cold and dry and dusty smelling. I sank to the floor in the middle of it, neglecting to even pull the chain on the single-bulb light and dispel the darkness. Though I should have planned or prepared myself or even prayed, I did nothing. I breathed.

It wasn't long before I heard movement downstairs. Voices carried up the hollow belly of the stairwell and slid under the door of my makeshift prison. I got up then because I had to and pulled on the light so I could drag the mattress through the maze of junk.

Simon heard me coming down the stairs and threw open the door at the bottom. “Julia!” he called enthusiastically. “We're going to stay with you for a while!”

I forced a smile at him. “Surprise,” I said weakly.

“This is so awesome!” he whooped and disappeared from sight.

Janice came to help me haul the mattress around the corner and into the room Grandma had prepared for them. She looked as if she wanted to say something to me, but I focused on the mattress, denying her an opportunity to speak. We placed the improvised bed against the wall and together wordlessly covered it with the sheets and blankets that Grandma had laid out.

When we were done, Janice smiled feebly at me and moved toward the door. I blocked it. I had rehearsed what I would say over and over on my way down from the attic—I would not be deceived and I would not live with her if she refused to meet me in some way. She would answer me or they would leave, I had decided. It was intolerable to think of sharing a roof with her if she didn't have the decency to at least satisfy two small uncertainties that were eating me up inside.

“I have two questions for you, Janice. I need you to answer them.” My voice was reedy and my fists were clenched. I stared her down.

She looked trapped, but there was resignation in her bearing. I believed she would answer me honestly. “Okay” was all she said.

I wasted no time. “What did Grandma say to you?” I demanded frostily.

Janice nodded as if she had expected that question. She thought for a moment, and I was about to insist on the truth when her eyes went expressionless and she answered almost obediently, “Nellie told me that this might be my last chance. My only chance. She told me I was a fool if I passed it up.”

One more last chance. I suddenly felt sick and hot. We were far from second chances, and every step toward some pathetic and patched-up form of reconciliation was an unprecedented gamble, a risk that I was not convinced I was willing to take. But as I watched Janice in the closeted airlessness of the sewing room turned bedroom, I finally understood that she was at least willing to try. The pain in her eyes as I'd stood on the porch and asked her to leave only days ago had been the reflection of what she believed was her final, failed opportunity. She had hoped I would see her and say,
I wanted you to stay. I've waited for you
. Did I? Had I? I didn't know. I didn't know if there could be another chance.

“One more question,” she prompted me. There were tears in her voice.