Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [5]
Mom came back to the table with the bowl of oatmeal and the second cup of coffee. Tillie nodded. She looked around the room again, taking in each of us one at a time. “Well, if anyone has to live in my house, it might as well be nice folks like you.”
Wally crossed his arms. “It’s not your house anymore.”
“Wally – ”
“Well, it isn’t, Mom. She can’t come barging in here like she owns the place, ordering you around and – ”
“Wally, please – ”
Tillie lifted a hand again, the conversational traffic cop. “Young man, I know how you feel – ”
“No you don’t – ”
“You think I’m some demented old lady who can’t accept the fact that her home has been sold.”
“Well, yeah – ”
“Sold right out from under her by her own sons – ”
“Now, Mrs. Monroe,” Mom broke in, “we had no idea. I mean, the house was vacant. It was on the market.”
“Of course it was. But against my wishes. I wanted to die in this house, and obviously, I’m not dead yet.”
“Nevertheless, Mrs. Monroe, the house has been sold. To me. I am the legal owner now.”
“But, you see, there’s only this one more thing I have to do. Only one. And it won’t be long now. I can promise you that.”
Tillie Monroe and Mom stared at each other for what seemed a long time. Tillie’s gaze was one of determined pleading; Mom’s, complete bewilderment. Finally Mom asked, “How can you say such a thing?”
“I have one foot over there already, and this is my jumping-off spot. I want to go straight from here to heaven.”
Mom opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, the doorbell rang.
“That would be Johnny,” Tillie announced. She turned slightly in her chair and hollered over her shoulder, “Come on in, Johnny. We’re having breakfast. You might as well join us for a cup of coffee.”
The same exasperated little man who came for his mother the day before now let himself into the house and hurried down the hall. Amid a hail of oaths, he entered the kitchen, begged Mom’s pardon for the intrusion and the swearing, and proceeded to berate his mother for once again escaping the confines of St. Claire’s Home for the Aged. For the first time I understood the saying “spitting mad,” as I watched tiny drops of spittle fly from his mouth and rain down like missiles over Tillie’s head.
“Now, Johnny, calm yourself,” Tillie demanded. “You’re ruining my breakfast.”
Mom stood. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Monroe?”
Flustered, Mr. Monroe shook his head. “I’m already late for work. Mother, come on. We’re going now.”
Tillie’s eyebrows hung low over her eyes. “But I haven’t finished my oatmeal, and I’m hungry.”
“Why don’t you let her finish,” Mom suggested, “while I pour you a cup of coffee?”
The man loosened his tie and took a deep breath. He looked at his mother and back at Mom. “Oh, all right.” Holding out a hand, he added, “I’m John Monroe, by the way. I’m very glad to meet you.”
Mom shook his hand. “Janis Anthony. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the seat Mom had just vacated. “I’m really very sorry about all this. Very sorry.”
“Can it, Johnny,” Tillie muttered as she shoveled oatmeal into her mouth. Temporarily depositing the cereal into one cheek, she said, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m just taking care of business. I’m sure Mrs. Anthony can understand that.”
“Well, I – ” Mom started, but John Monroe interrupted.
“Mother, you can finish your oatmeal, but this is the last time you’re setting foot in this house.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“But that’s just it, Mother. You don’t have anything to say about it.”
“And that’s what’s always been the matter with you, Johnny. You’re not like your father at all. You’ve always had to have the last word.”
“Now, you know I only want what’s best for you.”
“Hogwash, Johnny. You wanted to get your share of the money out of this house, and you know it.”
“Mother, I – ”
“Cream and sugar,