Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [4]
Mom shook her head, sighed quietly, then said, “I’m Janis Anthony, and these are my children – ”
“The boy’s named Wally, right?” Tillie Monroe interrupted, still making waves in the coffee cup.
“Why, yes – ”
“I heard you call him by that name yesterday.” She seemed then to finally realize I was in the room. By then I had dished up a bowl of oatmeal for Valerie and another one for myself. I’d taken the seat at the table on the other side of her, opposite Mom. Wally was eating his cereal standing up, leaning against the counter. In my peripheral vision I saw Tillie’s round face turn to me, and I suddenly felt myself caught in the crosshairs of some great machine gun. “And what’s your name, little girl?” she asked.
The spoon in my hand came to a dead stop two inches from my open mouth. A distinct dislike for this intruder snaked its way up from the soles of my feet and into every nook and cranny of my body. I resented being called a little girl. Valerie at two was a little girl. I was eleven. Already I was shedding my little girl appearance and was proud of that fact. Every night and every morning I brushed my long wheat-colored hair until it shone, and whenever Mom was out of the house, I snuck into her bathroom to experiment with her makeup. Back in Minnesota Eddie Arrington had told me I was pretty, and I’d dared to dream that maybe someday he and I would end up dating, but our move to Mills River had put a swift end to any thoughts of Eddie.
As my oatmeal-laden spoon descended in retreat toward the bowl and my eyes rolled left toward Tillie, the old woman was already attacking me with a barrage of questions. “Well?” she asked. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“Tell her your name, honey,” Mom urged impatiently.
“My name,” I said slowly, “is Roz.”
“Ross?” she sputtered. “That was my husband’s name. Ross Monroe. What kind of name is that for a little girl?”
Wally choked on some oatmeal, trying not to laugh, and that made me even angrier. Speaking even more slowly, as though to someone stupid, I said, “It’s not Ross. It’s Rozzzz.” I drew out the z for so long I sounded like a bumblebee in flight. When I stopped buzzing, I added, “With a z. It’s short for Rosalind.”
She looked at me a moment, her blue eyes staring out from behind those gray horn-rimmed glasses. She seemed to be deep in thought. Then she asked, “You spell Rosalind with a z?”
“No.” I shook my head. “With an s.”
“Then why do you spell Roz with a z?”
An unmistakable sensation of heat moved up my neck and fanned out across my cheeks. In my mind I was picturing Tillie Monroe with oatmeal splashed across her floral print dress, and Mom must have somehow seen the image projected on my face, because she stood abruptly and said, “Can I pour you some more coffee, Mrs. Monroe?”
Mom’s question managed to pull the old woman’s attention away from me and on to more pressing issues. “Yes, please,” she said, lifting her cup to Mom. “And a bowl of oatmeal too, if you don’t mind. Heavy on the brown sugar, with a dab of butter and cream.”
Mom, with a barely concealed lift of her brows, moved away from the table to fill Tillie’s order. Tillie sat back in her chair and let off a sigh of satisfaction. She opened the napkin at her place and laid it across her lap, then looked around the room and asked, “So where’s the mister?”
Mom lurched stiffly at the question, as though she’d been slapped across the shoulder blades with a broom handle. Before she could answer, Wally spoke up. “There is no mister. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Now, Wally – ” Mom started.
Tillie interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Say no more,” she said. “The boy’s right. Whatever happened between you and the former man of the house is not my business.”
The room became quiet. Valerie had finished her oatmeal and was getting fidgety, so I took her out of the high chair and settled