CHAPTER
thirty-three
I found Hugo in the living room with my old photo album open on the coffee table, Flannery curled up in the chair behind him. His head was propped up on his hands, and he focused his eyes on one particular picture. When I got closer, looking over his shoulder, I saw it was of Clara and me, sitting on the steps of our apartment building.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Why, that’s your mother and me,” I answered.
“You had short hair?” He turned his face toward me, his lip curled and forehead furrowed.
“Most girls had their hair like that back then.” I knelt beside him. “It was called a pageboy.”
“I like your hair better now.”
“Thank you. I do too.”
He leaned back, resting against the couch. “Where’s my mommy?”
“Don’t you remember? She’s in the hospital,” I answered. “She’s sick and they’re going to help her get better.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?” I put an arm around him.
He nodded and pinched his lips together. I thought he was trying hard to be strong, to not cry.
“Oh, Hugo,” I said, holding him close. “You don’t need to be scared of that. The doctors are helping her get better.”
“Can I visit her?”
It was the same question Clara had asked our dad years and years before when Mother was in the asylum. Dad had looked her straight in the eye then and told her that it was no place for children.
That was the right answer. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Not now, sweetheart,” I said instead. “But you can draw pictures for me to take when I go.”
He nodded and reached out, closing the photo album.
“I think I want to be alone,” he said.
He got up, left the room, and climbed the stairs. I heard the door close.
When his crying traveled through the vents to the living room, I had to fight against myself to not rush up and comfort him.
Some grieving needed to be done alone.
At least at first.
Norm had always prided himself on keeping the yard trimmed and presentable. I, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t given the grass a second thought in the months since he passed. The wet beginning of summer had made the grass a glorious shade of green and completely unruly. The blades came up well past my ankles when I stepped off the back porch.
He would have been disgusted by the patches of dandelions that had sprouted up, unchecked. He’d have shaken his head at how his careful edging along the pavement had grown over.
It had only been a week since the boy down the street had last been over to cut the grass. But with all the rain we’d had, it grew faster than I could ever remember it doing.
I couldn’t stand being inside and hearing Hugo’s crying, so I thought I’d make myself useful and get busy doing something productive outside.
So I put on a pair of slacks and headed to the backyard.
I stood at the door of the shed, staring down the Simplicity Wonder-Boy 400 riding mower, trying not to be intimidated by its cherry red paint job and shiny chrome wheels. The blade didn’t bear a single fleck of grass, and there wasn’t a clod of dirt to speak of in the tread of the tires.
When I looked at the knobs and levers and switches, I felt a little light-headed at the prospect of having to figure the thing out all by myself. For a moment—just a flicker of a second—I considered marching myself back inside to forget about the whole thing and wait for the neighbor boy to come around to do the job.
But then I thought better of it.
“You are Betty Jane Sweet,” I whispered, hands on my hips, feet just slightly apart to make me feel more powerful. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”
So, I put my mind to pushing the miniature tractor out to the yard. And then I put my mind to starting it.
But no matter how much of my mind I applied to the task, I simply could not figure it out. Even consulting the manual gave no clues.
I’d never been one prone to fits of temper. That day, though, I swung my foot back and kicked the doggone Wonder-Boy, aiming for the tire.
Unfortunately, I’d never had much practice in kicking things and hit the hard metal frame. Instantly, I regretted my tantrum, feeling a sharp pain shoot from my big toe up through my foot and calf.
“Oh!” I yelped, bending at the waist and feeling as if I might pass out.
I let myself drop to the grass on my behind, holding the toe of my canvas tennis shoe with both hands and bawling like a little girl.
It wasn’t so much the pain or the frustration of not being able to get the Wonder-Boy to work. I wept because I was alone and because my purpose was gone. I cried because Norm and I had wanted so much from life and he’d gone too early to realize much of it. I cried for Clara and Hugo and how really hard life can be.
Little did I care how loudly I sobbed or what a wrenching I did to my face. What did it matter? It wasn’t as if anyone could see me there on the ground in my backyard, leaning against a riding lawn mower.
At least that was what I thought.
A car door slammed, and I sucked in my breath, suddenly aware that I wasn’t the only one around at that time of day. I bit my lips between my front teeth, hoping that would remind me to be quiet, at least for a minute.
But I’d been spotted.
Stan stood at the gate, eyebrows lifted high and looking at me as if I’d lost my ever-loving mind.
“What in the world are you doing, Betty?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to smile but failing miserably. The best I managed was a grimace. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?” He let himself in through the gate.
“No.” I stood up, using the mower to steady myself. I was glad to find that my toe didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had moments earlier. “I, apparently, can’t figure out how to turn on a lawn mower.”
“Did you try—”
I didn’t let him finish.
“My husband’s dead. I’m only forty. That’s too young to be a widow.” My voice rose in volume and pitch as I went on. “My sister’s in an insane asylum, and I’m trying to take care of her little boy. I have no idea how to raise a child. I’ve made a mess of everything. He’s upstairs bawling his eyes out, and there’s nothing I can do to make it better. And I can’t even figure out how to start this stupid lawn mower!”
I took in gasps of breath, rapid and shallow. The air never seemed like it was enough. It felt a whole lot like drowning. Sparks of white popped in my eyes, and I was so dizzy I thought that I would fall down.
Stan’s hand steadied me, holding me by the elbow and leading me to the back stoop.
“Easy now,” he said. “Simmer down a little, will you?”
It took more than a handful of minutes before my breathing slowed down, deepened. My hands shook when I lifted them to my face.
“Better?” Stan sat beside me, hands in his lap.
“No,” I answered. “Maybe a little. I don’t know.”
“You want a glass of water or something?”
“Just stay with me for a couple of minutes, would you?”
“I can do that,” he answered.
A squirrel bolted across the backyard, stopping just before reaching the fence. He raised up on his hind legs, sniffing the air in our direction before taking off again to scamper up a tree.
“Betty . . .” Stan started.
“Don’t tell me that it’s going to be okay.” I rubbed my temples, hoping to ease the throbbing in my head. “Because I’m not entirely sure it will be.”
“I wouldn’t.” He cleared his throat. “What I was going to say is that I’ll mow the lawn for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said. “I will expect a shiny quarter when I’m done.”
A very quiet laugh worked its way out of me. As small as it was, it felt like sunshine after a long rain.
“Can you believe I’ve never mowed a lawn before?” I let my shoulders relax. “Norman never wanted me to ruin the grass, I think.”
Stan shook his head. “He didn’t think you should have to do that kind of work.”
I bit my lip hard, feeling it tremble against my teeth. The last thing I needed was to have another sobbing fit. One a day was plenty.
Stan put his hand on my shoulder. It was a warm hand and thick. But he didn’t rest its full weight on me. He was gentle.
“He was a good man,” I whimpered. “I miss him.”
“Me too.” He nodded. “Best friend I ever had.”
“Oh, Stanley.”
“Now I’m just stuck with Al,” he said, smirking. “Ah well. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I used the collar of my blouse to wipe the tears from under my eyes.
“Goodness gracious,” I said, sniffling. “You’d think a girl could do a little yard work without dissolving into tears.”
“You have every right to cry.” He stood, dropping his hand from my shoulder and letting it hang at his side. “Now, let me see what’s wrong with that beast over there.”
Stan circled the Wonder-Boy, fidgeting with this and wiggling that. He got on hands and knees, looking up under it. After a handful of minutes he came back, a glint in his eye.
“Welp, you could’ve messed with that all day long and not gotten it to work,” he said. “Don’t worry. I know what’s wrong.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It doesn’t have any gas in the tank.” He smirked.
“For the love of Pete.” I smacked my forehead.
“Rookie mistake.” He turned toward the mower. “You go on inside and rest a bit. All right?”
Body sore and weary, I managed to get myself up and to the door. I turned to see him carrying a gas can out of the shed.
“Thank you, Stan,” I said before going inside.
“It’s what Norm would have wanted me to do.” He flashed me his understated smile. “I don’t mind.”
It wasn’t long after Norman came home from the war that Marvel brought Stan to supper to meet all of us. Marvel was sixteen and so clearly taken with Stan that Norm was just sure he’d break her heart.
“She’s too young to have a boyfriend,” Norm had said.
“I was fourteen when we met,” I said. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with that.”
“It’s different.” He stormed across the room, adjusting a picture frame on the mantel.
“I knew my intentions,” he answered. “I don’t know if this Stan guy is honorable.”
“Give him a chance, honey.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, you’ll have to,” I said. “Because I invited Marvel over for Friday night. And she’s bringing him.”
“Betty! Why would you go and do a thing like that without asking me?”
“Because I knew you’d say no.”
Norm grumped around the rest of the week, stewing over having to spend time with a young man he wanted nothing to do with. When Friday came, he resisted putting on a fresh shirt and pulling a comb through his hair.
“Oh, Norman,” I’d said. “Try to be nice. For Marvel’s sake.”
“I’ll try.”
“Besides, he’s bringing the bread.”
“He’s buying it?” Norm squinted at me.
“No. He’s making it.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake.”
When Stan pulled his ancient pickup truck into the driveway, Norm watched to make sure he got Marvel’s door. When he did, Norm shrugged, allowing the boy at least a few points. When Stan came in, one hand on the small of Marvel’s back, Norm shook his head, subtracting all of them.
But it was when Stan handed the loaf of bread he’d made to me, wrapped in a cloth, that Norman really paid attention.
“You made this?” Norm asked.
“I did,” Stan answered, beaming and completely unaware of how he was being scrutinized. “It’s an old family recipe.”
“What is it?”
“Challah bread.” Stan nodded at it. “You ever have it?”
“Sure I have,” Norm said. “I’ve made it a hundred times.”
“Well, I’ve made it about three times.” Stan grinned. “I hope this one passes muster.”
Needless to say, the loaf won Norman over. As soon as Stan finished high school, he took a job at Sweet Family and saved as much as he could to buy a diamond ring for Marvel.
Norman was in the wedding as best man.
It was a miracle, the good a loaf of bread could do.