South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [5]
“I’m coming—” But Gladys was already brisking away. Marley made an inquisitive mew and Madeline rubbed his ears. “We’ll be fine,” she said, hoping. She scooped him from the passenger’s seat and followed in Gladys’s wake. Details loomed Up: the cement walk was cracked, the front door—which had already clacked shut behind Gladys—was red (this surprised her), the trim needed painting, the streaming rain fell straight off the eaves into the flower beds. The daffodils poking Up through a scrim of snow and ice were getting battered, which seemed like a shame—and then Gladys was opening the door again and Madeline was going in.
2
Madeline stepped into a parlor that smelled faintly of mothballs and looked frozen in time somewhere around 1950. “Thought you’d decided to set Up camp out there,” Gladys said, heading toward the back of the house. Madeline followed, Uncertain this was the right thing to do but Unable to think of an alternative.
“I’m tired, I guess,” she said to Gladys’s back. “It was a long drive.”
“Nathan drove like a bat out of Hell in that fancy vehicle of his last weekend. I thought we’d all perish. I watched the speedometer, he had it Up over eighty-five most of the way. He got Us back here even faster than he took Us down in the first place.” Gladys gave Madeline a brief glance over her shoulder and Madeline thought her eyes were twinkling a little, but she couldn’t be sure. “Arbutus has asked me fifteen times already when I thought you’d be here. You’d best come set her mind at ease.”
They crossed into a kitchen that was broilingly warm. Arbutus was sitting at the table, her walker close by. Her face lit Up. “Madeline! You’re here. I’m so glad.”
“Me too.” Madeline went and gave Arbutus a hug and her trepidation eased some. Even if everything else was a bust, Arbutus was a good, legitimate reason to have come. She smiled to herself. God forbid she should ever do something for no particular reason at all, or a selfish reason, or a frivolous one. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “How was your trip last weekend?”
“I’m fine, dear. It’s good to be home. I can’t tell you how glad I am—”
“Do you want coffee?” Gladys broke in.
After a tiny pause Madeline said, “I’d love some.” She was a guest here, she reminded herself. She’d just come. It was ridiculous to be so irritable that the least little thing, a tiny rudeness, made her want to lash out in frustration. She was tired, that was all. It had been a stressful three weeks getting ready, a big change. And it was going to be a change, she was going to change, she was no longer going to constantly feel like a wire stretched tight, about to snap.
Gladys poured the coffee and Madeline studied the room, stroking Marley to reassure him. The metal coffeepot had come off the back of a huge white porcelain range which had a stovepipe running Up from its top—a woodstove. The floor was linoleum in a pattern of brown and green squares, and the table was blue Formica with stainless-steel legs. A kerosene lamp sat in its center, along with a ceramic salt and pepper set shaped like a hen and rooster. The cupboards were covered with coffee-colored paint and the counters were narrow, with a big porcelain sink built into them. The room had lived-in warmth that Madeline liked. She took the mug Gladys offered and ventured a smile, about to say so. “Sit down, why don’t you,” Gladys said, and it sounded more like an order than an invitation. Madeline sat, stifling her irritation.
Gladys got coffee for Arbutus too, rinsing out the dregs from her last cup, adding a dash of salt and cream and stirring them in, bringing the cup to the table and wrapping her sister’s hand around it. Madeline had a flash of connection with Gladys in that moment. So many times in that last year she’d been careful to make sure Emmy’s hands were steady on her mug of tea.
She sipped at the coffee, intending to visit, but the bone-deep warmth of the kitchen, the smell of the wood heat (it was something like ironing, and Emmy had ironed when Madeline