Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [26]
chapter
8
With a high-pitched wailing of brakes, the school bus rolled to a stop at the corner of McDowell and Edgewood. The driver shifted into neutral, then moved his large hairy hand from the gearshift to the shiny silver knob that swung open the double doors. Seated right behind him, I had spent the trip from school alternately staring at the creases in the back of his neck and at that hardworking hand. I had no desire to see or be seen by the other kids on the bus. Not yet. It would take me a while to work up the courage to try to make new friends.
As soon as the doors opened, its two metal halves folding up like rubber-edged wings, I hurried down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Other kids got off, but I didn’t pay them any attention. Instead, I clutched my books to my chest and moved hurriedly past the houses on McDowell Street until I reached ours, the now familiar white clapboard in the middle of the block.
The front door was unlocked, and I let myself in. The house was quiet. Mom was at work, and Wally was on his way to his job at Jewel, but I thought Tillie would be there to greet me.
I moved to the kitchen, dropped my books on the table, and looked around. “Tillie?”
No answer.
I peered out the window into the backyard. She wasn’t hanging up laundry, carrying out the trash, or pushing the reel mower over the lawn – all of which I’d seen her do in recent days.
“Tillie?” I called again. Again, no answer.
I walked back down the hall and up the stairs to her room. And there she was, in her ancient padded rocking chair, some sheets of folded stationery on her lap.
Knocking on the open door, I said loudly, “Tillie?”
She jumped a foot and put a hand to her chest. The pages on her lap took flight and tumbled to the floor. She looked at me with startled eyes. “Merciful heavens, Roz!” she cried. “You just about scared the living daylights out of me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were asleep.”
“Well.” She leaned over and gathered the papers from the floor. “I guess I dozed off. What time is it?”
“I don’t know. A little after three-thirty, I guess. I just got home from school.”
“School! Oh, Roz, I meant to meet you when you got home, have a little snack ready. But I put Valerie down for her nap and came in here to read this letter from Lyle, and then I guess I just dozed off, like I said.”
“That’s okay, Tillie. I don’t need a snack. Can I come in?”
“Well, sure, honey. Come on in and pull up that chair from the desk. We can visit for a while, if you’d like.”
Though she’d lived with us for several weeks now, I hadn’t yet looked around Tillie’s room. At first it had been Valerie’s room, but Mom moved Val into the master bedroom with her so Tillie could have her own place. The room was now furnished with items John Monroe and his wife had taken for their guest bedroom at the time they sold Tillie’s house. When Tillie left the nursing home, she demanded everything back, including the huge brass bed she and her husband had shared for their entire married life. The bed, the chest of drawers, the desk and rocking chair, numerous paintings and framed photographs all came back, with Johnny complaining that if he’d known it was only going to come back he’d have left it all here in the first place. Her few items at the nursing home – a small end table, her wedding quilt, and other odds and ends – were also packed up and restored to their proper place on McDowell Street.
Everything in her room was old and quaint and frilly, like the lace curtains in the windows and the antimacassars on the arms of the rocking chair. Before we moved in, Gramps had furnished the house for us with contemporary furniture, so stepping into Tillie’s room was like stepping back in time. I placed the desk chair across from Tillie and sat down while my eyes wandered around the room, taking it all in.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to a framed portrait