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close examination, she thought, refusing to look at the spotted mirror on the medicine cabinet and the cracked pink tiles.
She checked the diaper he still wore for naps and found it dry; something to smile about. “You’re getting to be such a big boy!” she exclaimed, and was rewarded with a tinkle.
“You went in the toilet! Just like Mommy and Daddy!”
Finished, he raised his arms and bounced in the seat. Lucy slid him off and stood him on the floor where he squirmed and wiggled as she pulled on training pants and hooked his overall straps. At the second click he bolted shoeless for the door and she grabbed him by the back of his OshKosh’s.
“Shoes,” she said, leading him back to the nursery where he protested loudly as she wrestled him into a pair of almost new Stride Rite oxfords that were already getting a bit tight.
She was out of breath as she helped him down the back stairs to the kitchen.
Funny, she thought, helping Toby onto his booster seat.
The cookies ought to be nearly done by now but there was no delicious buttery smell. She filled his sippy cup with milk and then reached for the oven door, intending to give him a warm cookie. But when she peered inside the oven she discovered it was no longer hot, it was barely warm and the cookies hadn’t even browned.
She bit her lip and walked across the room to the refrigerator, where she reached for the box of graham crackers that was sitting on top. She opened it and pulled one out for Toby.
She stood there, looking at the dry little brown square of cracker, and burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?” Bill was at her side in a flash, his hammer still in his hand. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m not okay at all. I can’t live like this. Look at us! We’re living in a wreck!” Her voice rose and she went on, unable to stop herself. “This is a big mistake. You’re never going to be able to turn this dump into a house. You don’t know what you’re doing. It’s been months and we don’t have walls, or electric 286
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outlets or hot water. We’re freezing and it’s only December. I hate to tell you buddy but there’re two, three more months of winter to get through.” She marched over to the stove and pulled out the cookie sheets with her bare hands, slamming them onto the table and raising a little cloud of flour. “And the oven doesn’t work!” she shrieked, shaking with sobs.
“That’s simple,” he said, taking the box of matches off the shelf and dropping to his knees, where he lit a match and reached into the broiler producing a satisfying whoosh. “See, all fixed,” he said, leaning back on his heels and giving her a satisfied smile.
“It’s not fixed,” she said. “It’ll go out again, next time the wind blows through these pathetic excuses for walls.”
“Mo’,” mumbled Toby, holding out his sippy cup for a refill.
Bill stayed in place, head bowed, while Lucy got the milk container out of the refrigerator. “I know it’s tough, Lucy, but I’m really making progress.”
“Great. That’s terrific,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what are Toby and I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Bill got to his feet and picked up Toby, hoisting him high above his head and making him shriek with delight. Then he settled him on his shoulders. “We’re managing. We’re doing okay. You’re just feeling overwhelmed right now.”
Lucy looked at him, at his sweet sincere face and his sparkling blue eyes. He needed a haircut and a hank of brown hair kept falling into one eye; he shook it back and grinned at her. She couldn’t resist that cocky grin. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I know you’re working hard.” The oven, which had been hissing, fell silent as the pilot light went out again. “I just wanted to make my mom’s Christmas cookies.”
“We’ll get it fixed, I promise. I’ll call Sears right away.
Meanwhile, you need to get out of the house. You should take some time to yourself, go into town, do a little shopping. Toby and I will hold the fort, right Toby?”
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Toby giggled. He loved sitting on his father’s shoulders.
Lucy considered. It had been quite a while since she’d had any time to herself. “Okay,” she said. “That’s a good idea.
Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, swinging Toby down to the floor and taking his hand. “Come on, buddy. Let’s find your tools.
We’ve got some hammering to do.”
When Lucy left the house, she could hear them both banging away. Bill was nailing up sheetrock and Toby was imitating him, pounding the pegs on his toy workbench. I wonder how long that will last, she thought, closing the door behind her.
She slid behind the wheel of Auntie Granada, the secondhand Ford they’d bought for her to drive. It was another expense they hadn’t anticipated. Coming from the city they’d been shocked to discover there was no public transportation in rural Maine and that everyone had to provide for themselves. But Auntie Granada was one of the few things in their new life that actually worked and Lucy enjoyed cruising along the country roads with the radio blasting oldies. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” was playing as she turned out of the driveway onto Red Top Road and headed for town.
But where to go in town, she wondered, as she hummed along to the tune. There was no Bloomingdale’s in Tinker’s Cove, just a quaint little country store called Country Cousins that sold duck boots and rugged plaid shirts and corduroy pants. They had nothing at all for children, and only a few decidedly unstylish items for women. Definitely not the sort of place you went to spend your mad money.
Proceeding down Main Street she passed the newspaper office and the police and fire stations, eventually coming to Jake’s Donut Shack. She considered stopping there and treating herself to a hot chocolate, but dismissed the idea. The few times she’d gone inside she’d felt uncomfortable, as if Jake’s was some sort of exclusive club. Everybody seemed to know 288
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everybody else and regarded outsiders with suspicion. It was the same, Bill had told her, at the local fisherman’s bar down at the harbor. The Bilge had a faithful clientele of regulars who were practically hostile to newcomers.
Reaching the end of Main Street, Lucy turned down Sea Street to the town pier, where she circled the parking lot.
Nothing going on there, just a lot of boats sitting on shore and a lot of ice covering the harbor.
Well, so much for my afternoon out, thought Lucy, I might as well go home. So she headed back along Main Street where she noticed lights glimmering through the arched windows of the squat gray stone building that housed the Broadbrooks Free Library. Maybe they’ll have some new magazines, she thought, turning into the parking lot. Or maybe even a new mystery.
The librarian looked up from the cards she was sorting at the main desk when Lucy entered. She was a white-haired crone but she greeted Lucy with a warm smile and a cheery hello. “Are you interested in anything particular?” she asked, eager to be helpful.
“Not really,” said Lucy.
“Ah,” said the old woman, looking at her shrewdly. “Just need a bit of a distraction?”
“That’s it exactly,” said Lucy.
“You’re new in town, aren’t you? You and your husband bought that old farmhouse on Red Top Road, right?”
Lucy was amazed. “How’d you know?”
The old woman flapped a veined and spotted hand. “It’s a small town,” she said, with a shrug. “You’ve taken on quite a challenge with that place. I understand the building inspector was just about to condemn it.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Lucy. “But my husband is determined to fix it up.”
“Well, more power to him.”
Lucy smiled ruefully. “He’ll need it.”
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“It must be difficult for you,” said the librarian, nodding at Lucy’s tummy. “Especially with a toddler on your hands.”
Lucy was taken by surprise at the woman’s directness and was embarrassed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. She turned away, blinking furiously. “I’m managing,” she finally said.
“Oh, dear,” fretted the old woman, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s been a difficult day,” admitted Lucy, wiping her eyes with a crumpled tissue she found in her coat pocket.
“Well, I have just the thing,” said the librarian, coming round the desk and taking her by the elbow. “Come on into my office. I have a comfortable chair there and I can give you a cup of tea. Would you like that?”
“I’d love it,” said Lucy.
It was warm and toasty in the office and the librarian, who introduced herself as Miss Tilley, brewed a bracing cup of tea. Lucy found herself downing several cups as she related the day’s mishaps and actually found herself laughing as she described her struggles with the oven.
“I very much doubt that Sears will get to you before Christmas,” said Miss Tilley, nodding sagely. “There’s just the one repairman and I happen to know he’s flat out.”
“That’s too bad,” said Lucy, her face sinking. “I really wanted to make those cookies.”
“Why not make them at my house?” suggested Miss Tilley.
“My oven’s working fine.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble,” demurred Lucy. “Besides, I can’t really leave my little boy.”
“Bring him along. I love children.”
Lucy looked at the prim old lady, in her spotless white blouse with a cameo pin at the neck and her dark plaid skirt.
“I don’t think …”
“Nonsense. I’ll expect you bright and early tomorrow. At eight. That will give us plenty of time because the library 290
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doesn’t open until three on Thursdays.” She peered at her through her wirerimmed glasses. “You know where I live?”
Lucy suddenly felt inadequate. “I know I should but I’m afraid …”
“No reason you should know. You just moved here. I’m on Parallel Street, which is aptly named because it’s parallel to Main Street, at the corner of Elm. Do you know it?”
“I do,” said Lucy.
“And now, before you leave, perhaps I could suggest a few books. Do you enjoy mysteries?”
Lucy’s spirits were much brighter as she drove home. She had a small stack of well-thumbed mystery novels on the seat beside her and she was taking a different route, following Miss Tilley’s directions. It took her along Shore Road, past enormous summer cottages perched high above the bay. The view of rocky shore studded with tall pines, the dazzling expanse of blue ocean and the overarching blue sky was absolutely spectacular and Lucy began to feel once again that living in Maine wasn’t so terrible after all.
New York City had nothing like this, in fact, the city could be pretty depressing sometimes. The subway smelled awful, the streets were full of litter, there was graffiti everywhere, and you couldn’t walk down the street without having to step over at least one homeless person. And most important of all, Bill had truly been miserable at his job and that was something she couldn’t tolerate. More than anything she wanted him to be happy.
Coming to the end of Shore Road, Lucy turned onto Packet Road which Miss Tilley assured her would eventually lead her to her own Red Top Road after she passed a cluster of houses. Lucy was exploring this new territory with interest and when she noticed a sign advertising a yard sale she impulsively pulled off the road and followed the hand-drawn arrow down a narrow dirt track of a driveway, eventually coming to a stop in front of a ramshackle log cabin. With a CANDY CANES OF CHRISTMAS PAST
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sagging porch and broken windows patched with cardboard and rags, it seemed to be in even worse shape than her house.
Undaunted, she turned off the ignition and got out of the car, eager to see what bargains she might find. Lucy had discovered soon after moving to Maine that yard sales offered the biggest bang for the buck, and a buck was just about all she had to spend. You never knew what might turn up, maybe she’d find a present for Bill, or a toy she could recycle for Toby. He wouldn’t mind if it didn’t come in a box, brand new.
But this yard sale didn’t really deserve the name. There was only one small card table of household goods, with a carton beneath. And the items for sale verged on the pathetic: a stack of empty margarine tubs, a plastic ice cube tray, a few tattered copies of Family Circle magazine, and a plastic Christmas wreath that had faded from green to beige. Lucy was turning to go when the door opened and a young woman popped out.
“Hey!” she yelled. “I didn’t hear your car.”
“That’s okay,” Lucy yelled back. “I was just leaving.”
The woman was zipping up her jacket, a dirty white parka that had long ago lost its puffy look and had gone flat. She tucked her dirty blond hair behind her ears and shuffled across the dirt yard in leopard-print fuzzy slippers. She wasn’t wearing socks and her bird-thin ankles were blue from the cold.
“Did you see the box?” she asked, taking Lucy’s arm.
“There’s some good stuff in there.”
Lucy knew she was stuck. The woman, actually really only a girl, now that she had a good look at her, wasn’t going to let her go unless she bought something and Lucy didn’t blame her. For the first time in her life she was experiencing poverty and she recognized this woman as a longtime sufferer. The woman turned her head quickly, looking over her shoulder, and Lucy spotted two little children peering out of the broken window. She realized that this pathetic excuse for 292
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a yard sale was probably an effort to raise some money for Christmas.
“Well,” said Lucy, reaching for her wallet. “I guess you can never have too many containers for leftovers.”
The woman smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. “These work great,” she said, nodding enthusiastically and reaching for the pile of margarine containers. “Fifty cents?”
“Sure,” said Lucy, plucking two quarters from her purse and reminding herself that she wasn’t getting rooked, paying a ridiculous price for something she didn’t need, but should consider it charity.
Encouraged by the sale, the woman pulled out the cardboard box from under the table. “Take a look,” she said.
“Some of this stuff is old.” She paused. “Real old. Like antique.”
Lucy planned to take a cursory look and then make a quick escape, but her eye was caught by a gleaming flash of red and white. She leaned closer, to investigate, and pulled out a giant candy cane made of … of what? She thought it was plastic but now that she was holding it she thought it was glass.
“What’s this?” asked Lucy.
“A glass cane,” said the woman, shrugging. “Go figure.”
“There must be some story behind this,” said Lucy, intrigued.
The woman didn’t answer. She was looking down the drive where an aged blue pickup truck was lumbering towards the house. “Do you want it?” she asked, obviously nervous. “You can have it for a dollar.”
“Okay.” Lucy pulled out a dollar, the last of her week’s grocery money.
“Thanks,” said the woman, stuffing it in her pocket. She tilted her head toward the truck. “You better go now.”
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Maine, he was wearing a plaid wool shirt-jacket, blue jeans, and work boots. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, clumping across the yard and grabbing the woman by the wrist. “Didn’t I tell you, didn’t I say no way?”
“C’mon Kyle, you’re hurting me,” whined the woman, trying to twist away.
“I don’t really … I mean, I’d be happy to give this back, if it’s a problem,” said Lucy, eager to defuse a situation that seemed to be getting out of control.
“You get out of here,” snarled Kyle, spraying her with spittle. “This is between Dora and me.”
Lucy looked questioningly at Dora, who nodded her head in quick little jerks.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“GET OUT!” bellowed Kyle. “I got a shotgun, if you need convincing.”
“No,” said Lucy, backing away. “I’m convinced.”
She was shaking when she got back behind the wheel of the car. She started the engine and backed around, catching sight of Kyle and Dora in the rearview mirror just as Dora broke free of his grip. Kyle raised his hand, and for a minute Lucy thought he was going to hit Dora, but instead he turned and waved at her, giving her a big gap-toothed smile.
Lucy stuck her hand out the window and waved back, signaling that she’d gotten the message. Everything was cool.
He wasn’t abusive, not at all. She’d just witnessed an unfortunate misunderstanding and the sooner she forgot all about it, the better. It was none of her business, was it?
Or was it? Lucy wasn’t sure, as she bounced down the dirt track. She was certain Dora was a victim of domestic abuse but she hadn’t seen enough to go to the police, and she doubted there was much they could do in any case. From what she’d read, most abused wives declined to press charges against their abusers for fear of even worse violence in retaliation.
But one thing was certain, she decided, trying to quell the 294
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queasy feeling in her stomach. She wasn’t feeling sorry for herself any longer. There were people a lot worse off than she was, and it was time to count her blessings: a gentle husband who loved her, an adorable baby boy, a new friend. And if the glass cane was really an antique, it would make a great Christmas present for Miss Tilley.