Chapter Eight

“If I had my way, I’d find a new boarder. Don’t know if we can count on old George any more.” Helene swung her coat around like Greta Garbo, waltzed down the back stairs, and slammed the door behind her.

“She makes me so mad!” Bonnie Mae stamped her foot on the linoleum. Dottie had a mind to tell her if she had enough time to stand around and fume, then maybe she had time to scrub the floor. But she understood the girl’s feelings.

“Don’t it bother you? Can’t you see how unfair it is?”

Helene’s pronouncement rang in Dottie’s ears as she scrubbed the sink with the corner of a pad she brought from home. It was hard enough to hear her say that, but she wished Bonnie Mae hadn’t been in the kitchen at the time. That girl just couldn’t let anything go, and churning things around in her mind caused more problems.

Fifteen minutes later, as Bonnie Mae folded clothes at the table, Helene walked in again. “Here’s George’s mail, with a bill from Dr. Schulz, I’m thinking. Don’t know how he’ll be able to pay it, what with all this time he’s missed working out at the Miller’s farm. You know he does their chores when Heinie has to be gone some days with his seed corn business.” She flipped the bill onto the table and walked over to the sink gave a shrug. “But then, that’s not my problem.”

When Dottie looked up from peeling carrots, Helene faced her with the frazzled scouring pad in her hand. “Dorothy, what’s this? Have you been wasting money on scouring pads?”

“Not your money, Helene. I bought that myself.”

“Tch, tch. Waste not, want not.”

Bonnie Mae launched a sizzling look over Helene’s head toward Dottie, peeling carrots at the dishpan. Her narrowed eyes, set teeth, and jutting jaw declared she would careen into a rage about thirty seconds after Helene left for the beauty parlor.

Dottie’s estimate was accurate. The trouble was, so were Bonnie Mae’s sentiments.

“What’s she going to do, throw him out if he can’t pay his rent? I don’t know how a woman so unjust stays in business. She could offer him a little help, couldn’t she? After all, he’s paid her a lot of rent money over the years. Wouldn’t you think she’d extend some human kindness to him now?”

It was one of those times when Dottie felt something way down inside her, like those geysers she’d heard folks describe out in Yellowstone National Park. The pressure built and built until it had to let loose. But she couldn’t let go yet—what might happen then?

Bonnie Mae pounded up the stairs with the folded laundry, leaving Dottie with the flak from her outburst. Pieces of it scattered all over the kitchen like broken china shards. No matter what Dottie put her hand to, the bare, unpleasant facts stared her in the face. An undeniable reality grew inside her as she mulled over both women’s pronouncements.

Hard to believe those two came from the same family—blood relatives. How could they see life in such opposite ways? Their perspectives were so at odds—Helene churchgoing and proper, and Bonnie Mae as cynical as her gum cracks. And yet, the younger woman truly cared about a lonely man like George Hanson, while Helene lacked even the pretense of concern.

No doubt about it. This time, Dottie had no choice but to side with Bonnie Mae. She scooped three cups of flour into a yeast mixture for a double batch of bread. Little by little, soft dough formed under her fingers. She liked working the pliable texture.

Of course, she didn’t always agree with the cleaning girl’s tempestuous conclusions, but this time, her words found their way into Dottie’s insides. She’d gotten to know George so much better over the past two weeks, and Al thought a lot of him.

On the way home from the hospital that first night, her heart had almost overflowed with gratitude. “Al, I’ll never forget you doing this for me.” At first, he didn’t hear her, so she repeated her words a few levels louder. His response touched her.

“He needed a visit—you were right, he’s a lonely man. Did you notice how hard he grabbed my hand just before we left?”

Dottie had.

During the rest of the ride home, she kept her eyes on the firmament, as the Psalms called it. After the all-day storm and misty evening, the stars shone so bright, she might have rolled down her window and touched them with the tip of her index finger. It felt good to be riding beside Al, good to have taken the right action, visiting George.

So many times, she thought about doing something, but even when she knew it would be right, she held back. What was that about? Thank goodness, neither of her girls followed in her footsteps—both Millie and Cora spoke up when they needed to, and every time, Dottie was proud of them.

She pressed her head into the seat and allowed her shoulders to sag. It seemed awfully good to be proud of herself tonight. Of course, without Al, she would never even have thought of going to visit George.

Now, her bread batch molded under her hands—the fourth time she turned the wad of dough over, its elasticity responded to her ministrations. Only a couple more minutes, and she’d plop it into the bowl she’d already greased. The oven, turned off from the noontime meal but still warm, waited to help the dough rise.

Her thoughts turned back to George—and Al. The afternoon after their first trip to the Heston Hospital, Al stood at her back door five minutes when she got home from work. She hardly had time to take off her coat and light the burner under her kettle.

“Shall we go see George a little earlier tonight? I gathered some magazines and several newspapers for him to read. Thought maybe he could use a toothbrush and a washcloth, too. That hospital doesn’t offer anything but a bed. Do you think he’d be offended if we added them to a basket of cookies and candy?”

His kindness floored Dottie. How could one man be so thoughtful? “Why, I don’t know. If he found them amongst the other things, maybe not…”

Al angled his head, waiting for her to say more. His eyes revealed genuine concern, as if he’d known George Hanson all his life.

“Give me a few minutes, all right? I’ll see what I can add to your basket. You’ve already put in cookies?”

Al’s smile came easily now. “My source brought me two dozen more today—thought I might as well share them with George. Spread the pleasure, you know?”

Dottie chuckled. “You definitely are all about that.”

He took a step toward her, his fingers edging around the cap in his hands. “Uh…I thought afterwards we might stop by that little diner in Heston we passed last night.” His Adam’s apple pulsed. “For supper.”

The tips of his ears flamed scarlet. “I thought it would take less time that way—we wouldn’t have to cook.”

“Why, I suppose so. Let me get my…”

“My treat. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes, all right?”

Dottie observed the wide spread between his shoulders as he headed into the porch. Then he turned toward her again. “George reminds me of my dad’s brother Arthur—the kind of man who doesn’t say much, but holds a lot inside. I like him.”

Through the window, she watched Al cross the crisp, frosted lawn. Thoughts pummeled her mind like racing horses. He liked George, and he liked helping people. She noticed a lilt in his walk that she didn’t recall. And he went to all the trouble of putting things in a basket…

When the kettle burbled, she poured some steaming water over a scoop of tea. Fifteen minutes. Enough time for that cup she’d been longing for all afternoon, and to find something to add to Al’s gift. In the back porch, she chose her three best apples and a couple of pears she’d picked green and wrapped in brown paper to ripen.

If she’d known ahead of time, she could’ve stopped at the grocery store for a banana. Well, maybe they’d go over again tomorrow—she stopped herself. Al had used we—something about what we put in the basket. She glanced out the window toward his house and sat down to her tea. She couldn’t corral her unruly thoughts—they kept trailing back to the night before like mischievous children.

Now, with the dough rising in the oven over a bowl of hot water, Dottie pulled out a bag of turnips and washed them. She relived the closeness she felt with Al when they walked into George’s room and found him sitting up in a chair. The way George’s eyes lighted warmed her heart, and she knew instinctively that Al sensed it, too.

And what was “it”? Maybe joy? The joy Pastor Langley mentioned last Sunday—the kind that came from giving. He always meandered to the theme of giving around Thanksgiving Day, but this year, his sermons sank deeper, maybe because she’d moved to a better place.

The ache in her chest whenever she passed Owen’s picture, or something else reminded her of him, had let up. When she arrived home at night, she no longer lingered at the thermostat, but wondered what interesting adventure the evening would bring.

She pared enough turnips and potatoes for supper and checked the dough—time to punch it down. She liked the sound of air escaping and the blurp the soft ball made when she gave it a pat. She turned the growing mass over and covered it with a dishtowel before sliding it back into the oven.

Downstairs, Bonnie Mae still slammed things around, but Dottie ignored the extra noise. If that’s how she worked out her anger, so be it, as long as she got her work done. In the dining room, she checked the table for supper—oh, Bonnie Mae had forgotten the napkins.

Well, the poor girl trekked up and down both sets of stairs fifteen times a day. Forgetting napkins was a small thing. Dottie pulled out a drawer and carefully set one under each fork, noticing how precisely Bonnie Mae ironed and folded them. She was such a good worker, even if Helene didn’t notice.

Somehow, that hospital visit altered things in Dottie’s mind—the good side of things showed up more. Maybe it was George’s exclamation over the basket and the newspapers, such small offerings. She’d never seen him so enlivened.

“This’ll keep me busy for a few days. And cookies! Did you make these, Dottie?”

She hated to tell him she hadn’t, but Al took over and explained that a lady pursued him with enticements from her kitchen. George guffawed so heartily, Dottie feared he might endanger his health. Al talked with him so easily, she only added a comment here and there.

And then the café—things had changed for her there, too. She studied the menu like a waif entering a rich uncle’s mansion for the first time. What should she order? The California hamburger sounded tasty, and french fries—did she dare? A time or two, Cora brought some home from her high school restaurant job. How long had it been since she’d tasted their salty goodness?

Al grinned at her over his menu. “Order whatever you want—the hardware’s paying. I hardly ever do anything like this, so it’s about time.” He smoothed the plastic-covered menu with his finger. “I think I’ll have the tenderloin sandwich—if I remember right, they’re the size of a dinner plate, with fries to boot.”

“I’ll have that, too.” She ate every French fry, but even with her good appetite, she couldn’t finish the tenderloin. The waitress wrapped half of her sandwich in a brown paper bag and today at noon, Dottie enjoyed it all over again.

She took a last look at the boarding house dining room, all ready for the meal, and sat down at the kitchen table. For once, nothing pressing came to mind. Bonnie Mae tramped up the steps, and, through the window, some sparrows twittered. Interesting how these recent good memories could lighten one’s frame of mind. Now, she didn’t get so upset with Bonnie Mae. And another thing—she could see that girl’s viewpoint as well as Helene’s.

Helene’s opinions, like the idea of throwing George out if he couldn’t pay, troubled her more and more. A solid determination grew inside her, even as Bonnie Mae shot her a fierce look passing through the kitchen.

“Bonnie Mae?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re right. I agree with you one hundred percent.”

The younger woman dropped her clothesbasket, pulled out a chair and faced Dottie, mouth agape and eyes round as pancakes. For once, her tongue failed her.

“I mean it, honey. I’m resolved not to let anything happen that would keep George from living here. At his age, where would he go?”

Bonnie Mae beamed and banged her fist so hard, the table bounced. “Attaway, Dottie!”

“Every man deserves a place to call home, even if it isn’t a real home.” Dottie almost added more of her sentiments. Even if it’s owned by a ruthless woman who cares more for her beauty shop trips and snazzy outfits than a fellow human’s well-being.

But she controlled her tongue. Her proclamation had already thrown Bonnie Mae into a state of shock.

****

By Tuesday night, George looked ten times better. Al took him a book about the history of trains, since he’d shown an interest in the miniature one that circled the interior of the hardware store, about eight feet up the wall. On their last visit, Al explained how that train ended up where it was, endlessly tooting its way around the store.

The story revolved around Del and little Charlie. Al’s delight at pleasing his boys became obvious as he described building the tall shelf and lifting the tracks and train cars piece by piece like a fire brigade from Charlie to Del, then up the ladder to himself. Dottie could feel Charlie’s exuberance when the last car found its place and Al flipped the ON switch he installed under the cash register where the boys could reach it at will.

On the visit before that, he brought a floor lamp, so George wouldn’t have to endure that piercing ceiling light. Dumbstruck at the sight of Al walking in with the lamp in his fist, George fumbled for words.

Now, Dottie and Al sat on either side of his bed while George thumbed through the train book, stopping at every picture. “Rode the best of ’em and the worst of ’em, too. Lived like a hobo for a while, when work got hard to find. Covered most of Missouri and southern Iowa in boxcars, I’d say.”

“You ate out over open fires?”

“Another fella and I buddied up, so it wasn’t that bad. Lotsa beans and bacon, sometimes biscuits and gravy, not so different from following the harvest out in Dakota.”

“Ever pass through Rolla?”

“Sure enough, more than once. Sleepy little town. You got people there?”

Al nodded. “Let’s see—my father’s cousin once removed—her daughter married a Rolla man. Now that I think of it, he worked the railroad. Yes, I do believe that’s right.”

“Don’t recollect the name of that one engineer down around there—he knew who we was, knew the train was our only hope of finding work. He was awful good to us.”

The exchange fascinated Dottie. Who knew, that engineer might have been Al’s relative. The world grew smaller by the day.

Before they left, George shook hands with Al. “Doc says I can go home on Thursday. Looks like I’ll get to ride a train again.”

“The train to Sternville? I don’t think so—I’ll be over to pick you up. What time can you leave?”

“Around noon, I guess. But I can take the—”

“Nope.” Al set his jaw, giving his reply an air of finality. “My old truck needs to be driven more. This’ll give me somewhere to go, and besides, I need to pick up this lamp.” He patted the brass pole with his long, slender fingers. “I’ll be here at eleven thirty, in case they let you out early.”

George lowered his eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you folks. Couldn’t believe it when you toted that big lamp in here the other day.” He gestured toward his basket of goodies. “Them cookies is awful, awful good, too.” He smacked his lips.

“Is there anything I can do for you at the house?”

George stroked his chin, glancing at Dottie in shy snitches and snatches. “I s’pect some bills might be comin’ in. Got money stored away—in a can way back on the closet shelf, on the right. Would you mind checking my mail?”

“I did overhear Helene say a bill came from Doc Schulz. Shall I bring your money over tomorrow?”

“If you don’t mind, would you go ahead and pay him? Just count out what’s needed and put the receipt in the can. I hate to be beholdin’ to any man. Don’t like the feelin’.”

Dottie and Al exchanged a look, since she’d told him about Helene’s comment on the way over. Al jammed his hand into his pocket and tapped his foot on the floor.

“I won’t forget. I’ll drop the money by Doc’s after the noon meal tomorrow.”

“Appreciate it. Maybe someday I can do somethin’ for you.”

“You never know, George. We all need each other in this tough old world.”

Al picked up his hat. “I suppose we’d better mosey back home. This woman’s got a job to get up for in the morning.”

The arched hallway’s lights hurt Dottie’s eyes, and the acrid scent of ether drifted from somewhere down the corridor. What would it be like to be a nurse here? Her mind catapulted to Bill. She knew no details, only that he was buried overseas. Maybe he died in a makeshift hospital. Mustn’t think about that right now—speculation did no good.

Al opened the door for her, and in the darker entryway, she composed herself. With him beside her, this narrow room didn’t bother her so much, and after the first night, she waited on the steps so they could walk through it together.

He was right—she needed her sleep so she could get up and work tomorrow morning. The truth of his words hung heavy over her. She’d sensed God’s guidance three years ago when Helene asked her if she’d be interested in working at the boarding house. But with such a bold, brassy winter, her body reacted more and more like an old bear, wanting less each day to traipse to work.

They drove toward Main Street, and Al turned toward her. “Want to stop and get something to eat?”

“Maybe not tonight, thanks. It’s getting awfully late.” Chugging along between fields of frozen cornstalks that glittered in the headlights, she knew she’d miss these trips. Freezing air rose from the hole in the floor, and her longing to stay home tomorrow increased with every mile.

Sequestered by the engine’s roar, she thought how things had altered since Bonnie Mae came. For one thing, she rarely had to maneuver her recalcitrant knee up and down the stairs any more. And an understanding had grown between them. She had come to like that girl, at least most of the time.

Just went to show how you could learn from a person, even if you started out on the wrong foot. But Bonnie Mae’s forthrightness had broadened her perspective on Helene, too. The more Dottie studied the tip situation, the more she knew the girl was right as rain.

Should she keep working for a woman so set on increasing her profits, even at a loss to her employees? Didn’t silence imply approval of Helene’s tactics? Not one to upset the applecart, Dottie wished her discomfort would vanish, but she knew better. The simplest solution would be to quit her job—that would take her out of the picture.

But might that be a cowardly choice? She would still know what was going on, and it would trouble her. Besides, she would lose contact with George. And then there was getting up every morning—what would she do with all her time?

Al slowed for a corner, and in the brief interlude of quiet, revealed his thoughts. “Once George gets home, I’m going to visit him, Dot. Maybe he likes to fish. Or maybe he’d enjoy going to a high school basketball game. You think so?”

“What? Sorry, I was thinking about something.” He repeated his questions, and she paid more attention. There was no use trying to analyze all her conflicting feelings about her job right now, anyway. If God guided her to it in the first place, couldn’t he as easily guide her away?

As for the question of how to use her time, a longing thrummed inside her as Al’s trusty truck roared home. If she could—if there were some way—she would visit Cora in California. With those two sweet little grandchildren, she’d never have to worry about having something to do.

But even the thought of stepping into a train sent shivers through her. Visiting Cora would mean riding clear across this huge country. She’d gotten used to Al’s truck cab, true, but he sat right here beside her. Stay inside a train for several days and nights? She shook her head. Impossible.