Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [8]
The grown-ups drank coffee that Betty poured from a silver coffeepot, the long black stream flowing from the narrow spout into dainty china cups. Valerie and I drank tall cold glasses of milk to wash down the pound cake drizzled with chocolate sauce. Valerie sat in the chair next to me, on top of a pillow on top of a phone book because the house wasn’t equipped for children.
“Well, Janis,” Marie said, “it’s been almost a month since Tricia left to get married, so we’ll be glad to finally have someone permanent in Accessories again.” She stirred her coffee slowly, having added cream and two lumps of sugar that she’d dropped into the cup with silver tongs. She lifted her eyes to Mom momentarily and offered a brief smile.
Mom settled her cup in the saucer and dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “Thank you again for saving the position for me, Marie,” Mom said. “I really appreciate all the help the two of you have given me.”
Gramps reached out and patted Mom’s hand. Marie said, “Of course, dear. Anything for family, right?”
“Everything’s going to be just fine,” Gramps said reassuringly. He nodded and popped a generous piece of pound cake into his mouth.
“Now, you say you haven’t worked retail before?” Marie asked.
Mom shook her head. “I was in secretarial work – years ago, before I was married. But I’m sure it won’t be a problem. . . . I’ll catch on quickly.”
“I’m sure, dear.” Marie lifted a hand to her hair and patted an imaginary loose strand. Every inch of her enormous beehive was in perfect alignment. Her hair fascinated me. Now and in the years to come, I was to spend hours in her presence studying the sculpture created out of her tresses; one, for something to do when I was with her, and two, because I couldn’t imagine the amount of time it took to cut, comb, curl, tease, and spray it all into place. To me, it was a work of art. But that was Marie – perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect nails, perfect clothes. She really was quite beautiful, and maybe that was why Gramps married her.
“You do know,” she continued with a glance at Mom, “you’ll be working five days a week, including every other Saturday.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” Mom said.
“So you’ve made arrangements for . . .” She nodded toward me and Valerie, as though she didn’t care to say our names.
“Not yet, no.”
“But of course you can’t bring them to the store.”
“No, of course not. Until school starts, Wally can look after the girls while I’m at work.”
“And after school starts? What will you do about Valerie then?”
“Well . . .” Mom looked at Gramps and back at Marie. “I don’t know yet. There’s been so much to think about.”
“You’ll have to hire a sitter of some sort.”
“Yes.” Mom didn’t look up from her half-eaten piece of cake.
“I’m sure there must be plenty of women out there willing to watch one more child, along with their own.”
Mom nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll find someone.”
I don’t remember how long we stayed at Grandpa’s house that afternoon. It seemed like an impossibly long time. Eventually Valerie and I left the dining room and tried to entertain ourselves by searching for four-leaf clovers in the backyard and playing catch with a tennis ball we found in the garden.
At long last Mom called us inside and said we were going home. Valerie climbed into the wagon, curled up, and closed her eyes. Mom looked straight ahead and didn’t speak while we walked. I could tell by the way she kept lifting a hand to her face that she was crying. She cried a lot in those days, always silently. She tried not to let any of us know.
“I can pull the wagon if you want, Mom,” I offered.
“Thanks, honey,” she said, “but I’m all right. I’m trying to decide what I should make for supper. I forgot