The Blue Bottle Club (27 page)

Five days ago, on December 28, Little Eleanor James had turned twenty-seven.

Not that it made any difference. The birthdays had passed unnoticed, just like the Easters and Christmases and New Years. Ellie did her best to mark those holidays, making little presents for her mother, baking a ham or a nice hen with cornbread dressing, bringing in fresh flowers. But the gifts went unused, the flowers wilted in their vases, and more often than not Ellie ate alone at the kitchen table.

The doctors had done what they could for Mama, but in the end they threw up their hands in despair and went away. There was nothing physically wrong with her, they said. She had simply retreated into herself, to a place far away where no one could reach her.

Thus the responsibility for everything—the house, their finances, Mama's care—had fallen to Ellie. Fortunately, they had been able to keep the big stone house and had a minimal income from re-investment of the stocks Randolph Cameron had sold at rock-bottom prices. It was enough to get by—to pay for food and utilities, keep up with the taxes—but barely. Sometimes the enormity of it all overwhelmed Ellie so that she could barely breathe. But most of the time she just put one foot in front of the other, marking the unchanging days off the calendar like a prisoner waiting for parole, and all the while pushing from her mind the insistent realization that there would be no release for Little Eleanor James. This was a life sentence, and she just had to make the best of it.

Ellie arranged Mama's breakfast on a wooden tray—orange juice, a scrambled egg with toast, a sliced apple. With heavy steps she pushed through the kitchen door and made her way up the stairs.

"Happy New Year, Mama!" she said cheerfully as she entered her mothers bedroom. The heavy draperies rendered the room almost as dark as night, and a musty smell assailed her nostrils. "Let's get some light and air in here, shall we? It's a beautiful day—a bit cold, but bright and sunshiny."

No response.

Ellie pulled back the curtains and, with a good deal of effort, opened the window just a crack to dispel the stuffiness. Her mother lay with her knees curled to her chest under a mound of tangled bedclothes. Ellie straightened her up, fluffed the pillows, and leaned her against the headboard. "I brought you a nice breakfast, Mama. Maybe we could go for a little walk later this morning. Would you like that?"

It was always the same, day in and day out. Every morning Ellie made the climb up the stairs; every morning she spent an hour or more trying to get a few bites of egg or oatmeal into Mama. Every morning, rain or shine, Ellie suggested that perhaps they might go out today, to take a walk or visit friends or go shopping or have lunch at some little restaurant downtown. She kept up the charade, even though she knew it was hopeless. Mother had not set foot outside this house since Randolph Cameron's funeral ten years ago. But Ellie kept trying, holding on to the slim hope that one day her mother would return from wherever she had gone, would come out of that dark place as suddenly and inexplicably as she had gone in.

"Come on, Mama. Let's get this breakfast into you and then get you up and dressed for the day"

Ellie spooned eggs into her mother's mouth and fed her the apple one slice at a time. Mama chewed obediently and drank a sip or two of the orange juice, but her eyes never registered an awareness that she was eating, or even acknowledged her daughters presence.

When breakfast was over, Ellie helped her mother into the bathroom, ran water into the tub, and removed her nightgown. Even though she saw it every day of her life, Ellie never got used to the sight of her mothers shriveled, pale body—the sagging, wrinkled skin, the pendulous breasts against jutting ribs. In past years Big Eleanor James had lived up to her name—a tall, robust woman with a full and healthy figure, a flawless coiffure, a rosy flush to her cheeks. Now her flesh hung from a skeletal frame as if all the substance had been sucked out of her. As indeed it had. She never ate unless Ellie fed her, never moved unless Ellie moved her. Wherever she was placed—in the bed, in a chair in the parlor, at the kitchen table—she stayed until she was moved again. It was like living with a cadaver that kept on breathing.

Ellie washed and dried her mother, dusted her body with a sweet-smelling powder, and helped her into a dark cotton dress with a sash. The dress hung on her shoulder blades like rags on a scarecrow, but at least she could cinch it around the waist to give it some semblance of shape.

They moved back to the bedroom, where Ellie placed her in front of the vanity, brushed her hair, and applied a little rouge to her cheeks. "There! You look beautiful, Mama. Like you're ready to go out dancing at a New Year's ball." It was a lie, of course, but it hardly mattered because it roused no response in Mama anyway.

"Now, we're going to go downstairs and you can keep me company while I clean up the kitchen."

Quickly, Ellie made up the bed, shut the window, and gathered up the remains of the breakfast tray Then, with the tray in one hand and her other arm supporting her mother, they went down to the kitchen.

Ellie had just put away the last of the dishes when a knock sounded on the front door. "Stay here, Mama—I'll get it."

She opened the door to find a strange man standing on the porch, cap in hand. A good-looking fellow—late thirties, she guessed—tall and rangy, with sandy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks flushed by the cold.

"May I help you?"

"Miss James? Ellie James?"

"Yes." Ellie found herself staring and quickly averted her eyes.

"I hope I didn't come at a bad time." He gave a deferential little bow. "My name is Roman Tucker."

Ellie waited, and after a minute or two of awkward silence, the man apparently realized that she had no idea why he was there. He laughed and raked a hand through his hair.

"Sorry. I should have made myself more clear. I'm an acquaintance of Maris and Letitia Cameron, from East Asheville Methodist Church."

"If you're here for a contribution, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. If you'll excuse me—" Ellie started to shut the door, but he put his hand out to stop her.

"No, you don't understand. I'm here to help."

"What do you mean, help?"

"I'm a handyman, you see, and—"

Ellie closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr., ah, Tucker, is it? We simply can't afford—"

"Listen," he interrupted, "I'm fully aware of your situation. Tish and Maris told me all about it. I'm not looking for money—I have a part-time job as custodian of the church. I'm looking to make a trade."

With fascination, Ellie watched the animation in the man's eyes. How long had it been since she had seen this kind of life in another person's expression? "What kind of trade?"

"Unless I miss my guess, you need someone to help out around the place. I need room and board." He grinned at her, drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, and presented it to her with a flourish. "Proof, milady, that I am a gentleman of the highest reputation, who in no way will prove a danger or an annoyance to your lovely person."

Ellie knew he was mocking her, but she rather enjoyed it. She opened the envelope and scanned the paper—a letter from Tish and Maris, providing a proper introduction to Mr. Roman Tucker and assuring her that he was a fine man of noble character who would be of great assistance to her. Where they came up with this idea, Ellie had no clue. Still, it was clearly Tish's handwriting. Her eyes filled with tears. She hadn't seen Tish in ages, but it gave her a warm feeling to know that her friend still thought of her, still cared about her.

And the truth was, she desperately needed a handyman. The roof was beginning to leak into the upstairs hall, and the bathtub took forever to drain. The yard was full of weeds, the iron fence could use a coat of paint, and on the north side of the house, the mortar between the stones needed shoring up.

More than that, Ellie suddenly realized how long it had been since she had had anyone to talk to.

She glanced back down at Tish's letter. The girl was right—Ellie did need Roman Tucker's help.

"So, Mr. Tucker, what would you require in the way of accommodations?"

"Very little, actually. Letitia and Maris said you have a small cottage out back that would suit my needs quite well."

"Cottage?" Ellie stifled a laugh. "Mr. Tucker, that 'cottage' as you call it, is little more than a storage shed. It's only one room. It does have a wood stove, but it's full of tools and hasn't had any attention in years. It probably even has mice." She shuddered at the thought.

"I'm sure it will be fine. I'll work first on fixing it up, if that's acceptable to you." He lifted one eyebrow. "As for the mice, I'm sure I can find a cat who needs a home. In exchange for the cottage and two meals a day, I'll do whatever repairs or maintenance you need. Just give me a list."

"When would you begin?"

"Right now, this morning—if that's acceptable with you." He motioned to a battered leather bag at his feet. "I'm ready to move in immediately."

Ellie didn't need to ponder long to come to a decision. "All right. You can take a bed and dresser and whatever else you need from one of the guest rooms," she agreed. "We'll try it for a month. If we're both happy with the arrangement, you can stay. If either of us decides it's not working out, you'll leave without an argument. Agreed?"

"One other thing I'll require," he said as he bent to pick up his bag.
Ellie eyed him skeptically. "What's that?"

"Don't call me Mr. Tucker. The name is Roman—Rome, to my friends. When anyone calls me 'Mr.' I find myself looking around for my father."

He put out a calloused hand and they sealed the deal with a handshake. But Ellie let her fingers linger in his grasp, surprised that such rough skin could have such a gentle touch.

27

THE HANDYMAN

May 15, 1940

E
llie watched through the kitchen window as Rome Tucker pulled weeds from the overgrown garden plot and carefully staked the small tomato plants. His cat, an enormous blue-eyed Himalayan named Mount Pisgah, darted around his ankles chasing bugs.

Shortly after Rome had settled in, Pisgah had arrived out of nowhere, showing up one morning at the door of the little cottage much as Rome himself had appeared on Ellie's doorstep. Barely more than six months old, scraggly and pathetic, she bore no letter of introduction—only a natural gift for hunting, an affectionate disposition, and a purr loud enough to wake the dead. She quickly dispensed with the mice that had taken up residence in the cottage and soon became ruler not only of Rome's heart but of Ellie's as well. In just a few months Pisgah had grown from a scruffy kitten into a well-groomed and elegant feline, her pale silver fur marked with darker gray at the tail, paws, and ears. She carried herself like a princess, with the ruff around her neck Huffed out, her tail erect and crooked like a question mark.

The pleasant sound of whistling came in through the screen door, and Ellie could hear Rome murmuring to the cat, see him smiling as he patted the soil around the roots of each of the seedlings. Rome seemed to find satisfaction in the simplest of tasks, and often Ellie would hear him laugh for no reason at all—except, perhaps, for the sheer joy of living.

Spring had come, and with it new life, and new hope. The hope, Ellie suspected, had more to do with the man than with the season.

Rome had been true to his word. He had spruced up the little stone cottage out back, furnishing it sparsely from a few items gleaned from the house. He had repaired the roof, tuck-pointed the stones on the back side of the house, fixed the plumbing, and done a thousand other things Ellie didn't even know needed to be done. Now he was planting a garden—a nice assortment of vegetables, which would greatly decrease their expense for groceries, and flowers to bring, as he put it, a touch of God's glory to the place.

In one sense, nothing had changed. Mama was still hidden away in the dark recesses of her own mind, still totally dependent upon Ellie. Day passed into day with no improvement, no respite from the endless responsibility, from the awareness that she, and she alone, bore the burden of her mother's life and her own. But from another perspective, everything was different, altered forever by the arrival of Rome Tucker on New Year's Day. Ellie hadn't crossed the threshold of a church since Mama's breakdown ten years ago, hadn't prayed in ages, hadn't given God a second thought since who knows when. But in a strange twist of mind, she was thoroughly convinced that Rome Tucker was an angel in disguise, a messenger of hope sent from heaven to keep her sane and give her a reason to go on living.

"Morning!" Rome's voice called as he came up the back walk. He opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen with Pisgah close on his heels. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Ellie looked up at him and smiled. He had mud caked up to his elbows, and he nodded to the mess and chuckled. "Mind if I wash up?"

"Only if you leave your boots on the stoop."

He looked down and grinned sheepishly, stepped out of his boots, and came over to the sink in his stocking feet. "Something smells great."

"Bacon and eggs and grits." Ellie stepped back, handed him a bar of soap, and waited with a towel while he washed his hands. Pisgah jumped onto the edge of the sink in one graceful leap and stood balanced there, burrowing her head into Rome's ribs. "Pisgah, get off the counter," Ellie commanded. The cat jumped down and twined around her ankles. "What time did you get up this morning, anyway?"

"Don't know. Don't have a clock." He took the towel and dried his dripping arms. "My philosophy is, God gave us sunrise for a reason. Fella gets a lot more done in a day if he doesn't sleep the first half of it away."

"Rome, you don't have to work every second of every day," Ellie chided as she set his breakfast on the kitchen table. "Your cottage and my cooking aren't worth all the effort you put in around here."

He waited until she sat down, bowed his head silently for a moment, then looked up and waved a slice of bacon in her direction. "Your cooking is worth its weight in gold," he countered. "Basic, simple—just the way I like it." He turned a dazzling smile on her, and Ellie felt her heart accelerate. "What's for dinner tonight?"