CHAPTER
nineteen

Clara didn’t get out of bed on Sunday morning. In fact, she didn’t get up until well past lunch and after I’d cleaned up the leftover roast Hugo and I had eaten after church. She hadn’t stayed downstairs long before saying she was tired and needed to get more sleep.

Monday she stayed in bed until suppertime, not eating more than a few forkfuls of casserole before claiming that her stomach was upset.

Tuesday she promised to get up but never did.

On Wednesday she didn’t move from under the covers, even as hot as it was.

I did my best to keep Hugo busy during the day so he wouldn’t disturb her, so she could sleep off whatever ailed her.

All the while I had my suspicions. It was simply too familiar, her behavior. Her staying in bed.

When Hugo paid her visits, sitting on the edge of her mattress and talking to her, I remembered taking turns with Clara to do the same with our mother, trying to call her back to us from whatever dark place she’d retreated to.

I did my best to push away the thoughts of how it hadn’t worked with Mother.

By Thursday I decided that enough was enough. I wouldn’t sit by and allow her to waste away up there in my guest room. I put Hugo in front of Captain Kangaroo and tiptoed my way up the stairs, letting myself into Clara’s room.

A more determined woman, one in command of her home, would have stormed in. She might have dragged Clara out of the bed and tossed her into the tub for a good soaking, insisting on getting her out of her dark mood.

But I was no such woman.

From the looks of Clara, that determined woman would have squashed her like a bug. She lay in the bed, greasy hair plastered against her face that seemed even paler than the day before. The purple under her eyes made her blue irises look dim.

It nearly seemed impossible, that the woman who had smiled so beautifully at Pop’s stories on Saturday could appear so vacant just five days later.

I remembered what Mother had said once: “The demons drag me under fast.”

I hadn’t understood what she meant. How could a little girl comprehend a thing like that? But standing in the doorway, looking down at Clara, I thought I finally knew what she’d meant.

Just the idea of that made goose bumps prickle up on my arms.

“Sweetie,” I said, using a soft voice just above a whisper. “How about we try to get you up and at ’em?”

She didn’t roll away from me and she didn’t sigh.

“I was thinking of taking Hugo somewhere today.” I took a few steps into the room and slid my hands into the pockets of my skirt. “Don’t you think it would be nice for the three of us to get out of the house?”

“Did I ever tell you what Dad said?” she asked, voice crackly. “What he said to me?”

“I don’t think so.” I tilted my head. “What did he say?”

“He said I was just like her.”

“Who?”

“Like Mama.”

I took one step closer to her. “When did he say that?”

She lifted her left hand and ran it across her face, pulling the skin tight against her cheekbones.

“I don’t know.” She cleared her throat. “He said I was crazy just like her.”

She betrayed no emotion when she spoke. Gave no clue that what he’d said had hurt her feelings. But the way her eyes searched my face, I knew that she wanted me to say something. She wanted me to say the right thing.

“You aren’t crazy,” I said.

It was all I could think of.

“You’re a bad liar,” she said.

That was when she rolled over, pulling the covers all the way up over her head. Shut out, I left the room, pulling the door closed behind me.

I called up Marvel to see what she was doing to keep her boys occupied that day, hoping she’d invite us over. She didn’t disappoint.

“Join us,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of bologna to slap on bread for lunch.”

I decided that we should have a little dessert to go along with the sandwiches. When I was in need of something sweet, there was only one place to go.

Hugo held my hand as we walked from where we’d parked to the bakery, and I didn’t mind in the least. The day was what Mom Sweet would have called “close,” the air thick as a cloud. Even without the sun, it was hot with the promise of even more stifling temperatures in the afternoon.

I did not envy the fellas working in the bakery. It was days like that when Norm would come home at lunch to get a fresh shirt after sweating all the way through the first one.

Walking toward us on the sidewalk were a couple of ladies I recognized from around town. We were friendly enough, but I couldn’t have claimed to be on a first-name basis with either of them.

I lifted my free hand in a wave that neither of them saw. Their eyes were on Hugo, as if they’d never seen such a thing as a little boy walking down the street with his aunt.

I knew, though, what it was about this particular little boy and his aunt that had so stunned them. Namely the way my skin color contrasted with his. I wanted to call out and ask if they had completely forgotten their manners, staring like that.

Instead, I put my arm around Hugo’s shoulder and steered him toward the front door of Sweet Family Bakery.

“Do you like cookies?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

“What kind?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

I touched my lips to remind myself not to laugh at his answer. Never in all my life had I heard of a boy liking oatmeal raisin cookies. I half wondered if Hugo wasn’t really an old man trapped in a child’s body.

“How about we ask Pop if he has some of those,” I said, leading him through the propped open door.

As steamy as it was outside, it was downright roasting inside. Hugo, though, seemed not to notice. So taken was he by the cases full of cookies and muffins, I thought he would have stayed there all afternoon and been plenty happy.

Pop grinned at Hugo’s delight and offered him whatever he’d like. “Go ahead,” he said.

At the endless possibilities, Hugo seized up, unable to make a decision. Near tears, he curled his shoulders forward and blinked hard.

“Do you remember what you were going to ask for?” I said. “What kind of cookie do you like best?”

He shrugged.

“Was it oatmeal cricket cookies?” I asked.

Hugo grimaced and shook his head.

“Oh, I think I know,” Pop said. “Brussel sprout chip. Am I right?”

Hugo wrinkled his nose.

“How about slug butter cookies?” I asked.

“No,” Hugo said, accompanied by a giggle. “Oatmeal raisin.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Pop winked at him. “I keep those right next to the dog food puffs.”

“You’re joshing me,” Hugo said.

“Might be.” Pop waved him behind the counter. “I’ll get you a cookie. Maybe even two if Aunt Betty looks the other way.”

“Don’t spoil him too much,” I said.

“If you don’t like it, just go on back and get yourself a glass of iced tea,” he said. “Al just made some fresh.”

“Well, I suppose so.” I sighed. “While you’re at it, could you pick out a few cookies for Nick and Dick? Maybe something for Marvel and me too?”

“Sure thing.”

“Hugo,” I said. “I’ll be right in there if you need me.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Pop waved me off. “The boy’ll be fine. Go. Go.”

Stifling a protest, I did as Pop said, going around the counter and into the kitchen, breathing in the good smells of melted butter mixed with cinnamon.

“Hi, there,” I said, seeing Albert at the kneading board. “What are you making back here?”

“Cinnamon rolls,” he answered, grinning at me over his shoulder. “Mom’s recipe.”

“What’s the occasion?” I poured myself a glass of tea from Mom’s old pitcher and spooned in more sugar than I had any reason to.

Mom Sweet had a whole box full of special recipes that were reserved for only the very special days.

“See this box,” she’d said just after I’d become Norm’s wife. “These recipes are only for family. We never make them to sell.”

When I’d asked her why not, she put her hand on top of the card box and lowered her voice.

“Because some things we need to keep just for ourselves.” Flipping the lid, she showed me card after card. “Every one of these has a story. When I bake them, I think of memories of my children or my parents. Sometimes they make me smile and sometimes I get sad. But those memories? They’re the stories that bind us. And they’re meant just for special.”

That recipe box of Mom’s was nothing fancy, just cedarwood with a hinged top, and I suspected that Albert had no need to look at the instructions on the cards inside. Still, it sat on the kneading board, a safe distance away from the sprinkled flour and tacky dough.

“It’s Stan’s birthday tomorrow,” Albert said, stilling his rolling pin before changing angles and pushing it again over the dough.

I set my glass on the counter. “How could I have forgotten?”

“You don’t need to be hard on yourself.” He shook his head. “You’ve had a heck of a summer already.”

“Well, I know.” I touched my forehead, dabbing at the beads of sweat along my hairline. “Still, I should be able to remember the good things, shouldn’t I?”

“Better to be reminded today than tomorrow.” He stood upright, stretching his back. “He wants to go to the drive-in to celebrate. There’s some movie he’s been wanting to see.”

“All right.” I sipped my tea.

“Uh, Clara and Hugo are invited to come too.”

If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that Albert’s voice cracked.

“I’ll let her know,” I said.

“Pop said she’s having a hard time,” he said, peeking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” My glass made a tapping sound when I put it on the counter. “She’s just a little bit under the weather.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t embellish on the lie. I’d had a lot of practice when I was a little girl, telling fibs to cover up for my mother’s bad days. There I was, doing the same for my sister. It seemed worse, though, because it was Albert I’d lied to.

He nodded once, and I thought I read disappointment in his profile. Clara had been right. I was a lousy liar.

The back door opened, letting in a rush of humid air that cut the smell of baking with the sharpness of coming rain. Stan pulled the door shut again.

“Welp, that was an interesting meeting,” he said. Then, noticing me, he smiled. “Hey, Betty. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“We just stopped by for a few minutes on the way to your house.” I took another drink of tea. “Hugo’s out front getting spoiled by Pop.”

“It’s what the old man is best at.” Stan grabbed his apron and slung it around his neck. “You coming to the movie tomorrow night?”

“I hope so.”

“Good deal.” He tied the strings behind his back.

“What was the meeting?” I asked. “If I can be snoopy.”

“It was with the man who owns Lazy Morning,” Albert said, sprinkling the sugar and cinnamon mixture over the rolled-out dough. “He wants to buy us out.”

“They sent me because I’m the meanest of the three of us,” Stan said, crossing his arms. “I said we were doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“Well, good for you.” I nodded.

“I sure hope we can hold out.” He loosened his arms and shoved his hands into his apron pocket. “He said they’re coming to LaFontaine whether we sell or not.”

Albert, never one to talk much about his feelings, just went on dropping the filling onto the dough. His shoulders slumped, and that told me everything I needed to know.

“Anyway, enough of that unpleasantness. We don’t need to worry about all that.” Stan swatted at the air. “You know what you’re in for at my house today, don’t you?”

“Oh, that question makes me a little nervous.”

“Nick and Dick are digging themselves a mud pool in the backyard.”

“A mud pool?”

“Yes.” He gave me a crooked grin. “I know I’ll regret it later, but it’s keeping them busy.”

“Poor Marvel,” I said.

“No. Lucky Marvel,” he said. “They’ll be all worn out at bedtime. All she’ll have to do is hose them down before supper.”

I smiled at the idea of it.

“It’ll be good for Hugo.” He drew water from the sink, scrubbing his hands. “Let the kid get a little dirty.”

“I’m not sure Hugo will want to,” I said. “He’s such a neat little boy.”

“Betty, if ever there was a boy who needed to get a little muddy, it’s him.” He turned off the faucet. “I kind of wish I could be there to see it.”

“I’ll make sure Marvel gets a picture,” I said. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

“All right,” Stan said, tossing a damp hand towel into the hamper that stood in the far corner. “Have fun.”

“I’ll try.” I grinned. “Bye, Albie.”

He told me good-bye without looking up from rolling the pastry, a pretty cinnamon line swirling in between cream-colored layers of dough. He paid the work such attention, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips ever so slightly.

I pictured Mom, remembering when I watched her make the cinnamon rolls the night before Christmas. She was every bit as precise as Albert, but she was as carefree as could be. She took such joy from making them.

I didn’t know the story she’d assigned to that recipe. But I knew the one I had bound to those rolls. It was her, sleeves rolled up on her forearms and her hearty laugh filling the kitchen.

At the end of the rolling, Albert looked up at me and smiled.

In that look I saw a glimmer of her. Just a spark, but it was enough.