Special Smashwords Edition
The Christmas Quilt
by
Gail Cohen
Special Smashwords Edition
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Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
The
Christmas Quilt ~ Gail Cohen, Copyright 2011
ISBN:
978-1-61235-278-7
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Credits
Editor: Jane Bonander
Copy Editor: Nancy Schumacher
Format Editor: Nancy Schumacher
Cover Artist: Caroline Andrus
The Christmas Quilt
Gail Cohen
The Christmas Quilt is an inspiring, O’Henry-style story that follows the journey of a fanciful holiday quilt through the lives of 12 diverse families in the Chicago-land area. From January to December, seasons change, but not as dramatically as do the lives of those touched by the quilt’s presence.
About the Author
Gail Cohen asked God if she could be a writer and designer and then nagged Him until He said yes to both. She worked as a stringer, columnist and correspondent for Illinois’ third largest daily newspaper, The Daily Herald, for 25 years while running a freelance creative agency devoted to marketing, copywriting and design for giftware industry clients. Cohen authored/co-authored 12 books for Publications International; her feature articles have appeared in trade and consumer magazines. She taught advertising, copywriting, design, journalism and marketing for two Chicago colleges for 17 years. Cohen’s Chankukah menorah designs, licensed by Roman, Inc., have remained popular sellers for close to 20 years. Since 2008, Cohen has written over 2,000 articles for a web content studio that picked her as one of the site’s 16 top writers for 2011. Her essay, describing why the family took her grandmother’s ashes to Bally’s casino, won a coveted Women in Judaism Journal prize in 2011. Cohen has kids, grandkids and a small collection of ex-husbands. Currently residing in Illinois with cats Dreamsicle and Sunkist, she fantasizes about retiring to a maintenance-free condo located anywhere offering great weather, good food and an Internet connection.
Chapter One
Jon & Paulette
Night
Despite the fact that Paulette and Jon’s invitations read “No Gifts, Please!” in bright red ink, gift bags, boxes and mysterious packages piled up on the floor of their living room in a festive tower of metallic shimmer. Wine bottlenecks peeked out of silvery bags. Crystal jars of cashews were tucked into wicker baskets spilling over with green holiday shred. Atop this mountain of color, a huge bowl of chocolates masquerading as a flower arrangement dared anyone to add another gift. From a distance, the pile looked like a decadent landfill or the casually arranged holiday clutter a home magazine’s photographer might spend hours fixing to get the perfect “casual” feel for a Christmas photo spread.
The tower of unsolicited glamour stood out against Paulette’s tasteful decor. Tonight, a cathedral of candles burned in unison. The heat given off by the multi-colored candles could probably have warmed a London tenement in January.
Fragrances coming from the kitchen and dining area fought with the candles for attention. The crab dip overpowered the onion quiche the moment it emerged from the oven. Then baked garlic was uncovered, obliterating everything else. All of this magic...the glow, the sparkle and the smell...multiplied itself over and over in mirror reflections as forty guests appeared to be four hundred. It was the perfect Christmas party.
Jon and Paulette lived near the top of one of Chicago’s tallest buildings. To prove it, their chandelier swayed in three-quarter time whenever a moderately high wind tickled the lakefront.
Yet despite the near-blizzard going on outside their windows, the Morgans and their guests were too wrapped up on the walled-in twinkle to discern the light patterns reflecting from the snow with the markers in the channel or the street lights fanning out from the city to the suburbs on this cold December night.
In the center of the excitement, Paulette and Jon held court. They were charming hosts, as reflected in the warm invitations they had issued to come, eat and drink. Practiced hosts with the demeanors of medieval royalty hosting the annual wassail, Paulette and Jon were expert at maintaining even smiles all night while making sure no tray looked scavenged and no one’s glass stayed empty for too long. They stayed with each guest just long enough to make conversation about a mutually-shared interest...then went on to the next knot of friends, using the front doorbell’s ring or the kitchen’s lure to separate them with seamless grace.
In the background, a never-ending supply of smooth jazz and new age music spilled into the air at just the right volume. Jon and Paulette subscribed to a 24-hour music station via their cable company providing them with an endless string of elegant music without a single commercial interruption.
Because every last detail was so perfectly arranged and orchestrated, the Morgan’s parties weren’t events that prompted spontaneity. An unspoken rule of “come and stay no more than three hours” was common knowledge. Maybe two drinks. And a brimming plate of hors d'oeuvres in lieu of dinner that night or as a first course before heading for another party. Their lifestyle also set the menu tone: a healthy balance of heart-pleasing, crunchy vegetables served around quasi-palatable fat-free dips. They co-habited nicely with the deep-fried artichoke hearts and liver pates. Amazingly, everything disappeared at the same rate.
Hours passed. Wicks disappeared into the candles they occupied as the conversation quieted and the population thinned. When the door closed for the last time at about one a.m., Jon and Paulette kicked their shoes off in unison and gave each other a “high five.”
“Amen!” Paulette cheered, punting her black sequined pump across the living room. It landed smartly on their couch.
“And hallelujah...” Jon added. He waved both hands in the air with a gesture a revivalist would find heartwarming. Then he took Paulette’s waist and guided her in a tango that brought the pair into the living room.
“Go home, Maddy!” Jon called out to the dining room as the dancing pair caught sight of the maid in the mirror. She was loading a tray of half-filled glasses, her once-white apron artfully streaked with the evening’s menu. “Take whatever food you want and don’t show up until at least noon tomorrow or I will make you return all the leftovers!” he added.
Madelaina didn’t know what to make of these two. Of all the people she worked for, she liked them best. Their souls were kind and the sincere respect she had been given during the last year helped make up for the mean ones ... the slave drivers with no trace of kindness in their hearts.
It had taken a while for Maddy, as they had nicknamed her, to relax around them. But tonight, as Paulette waved goodbye, Madelaina grinned and nodded. She took the tray into the kitchen. Then, after a series of cabinet and refrigerator slams, she reappeared in her coat, a shopping bag of leftovers dangling from her arm. She closed the apartment door just as the clock chimed in the silence.
In the shining darkness of the candlelit night, Paulette stood, shook off her sequined sheath and moaned a sigh of relief as the heavily burdened silk fell to the floor. She snuggled up against Jon’s soft shirt. He stroked her back and the top of her silk slip, brushed back her blond hair and kissed her forehead. “Another noteworthy job, Martha Stewart!” he murmured.
“Thanks. But how about giving credit where it’s due? God must have been having a particularly insightful day when He dreamed up catering services. By my reckoning, this was a late-on-the-sixth-day idea.”
Jon dismissed the novel thought with a laugh, but Paulette was up for exploring the possibility. “C’mon! Think about it,” she insisted, looking at him seriously. “Don’t your most creative thoughts arrive when you’re relaxed? I can see Him up there—truly exhausted from having created the world—and realizing, ‘Good grief, now I’ve got to worry about dinner.’”
“God would not say ‘good grief’,” Jon challenged.
“Don’t interrupt,” Paulette said a forefinger on his lips. “So anyway, God’s up there with no dinner prepared and an angel comes along... a high-ranking angel... and says ‘Lord, you leave everything up to me.’ And the next thing you know, little white take-out containers are hoisted up to heaven on a golden rope.”
“Certainly, and a few fortune cookies,” Jon suggested, allowing himself to get into the rhythm of her banter. “God breaks them open and finds His says, You Will Create Something Extraordinary. “
“Right,” Paulette said, nodding. “But then He throws the fortune away saying ‘These things are never right!’ Next thing you know, Eden has a litter problem.”
Jon nodded solemnly, and then switched gears. “Getting back to the world’s first catering experience; don’t leave out God’s discount coupon for the Frequent Chow Mein Eaters Club. After His tenth order, He gets a carton of rice at no charge.”
“White rice or fried?”
They both started laughing. She settled back and put her legs up on the long expanse of couch. “So. Speaking of rice, how many third world folks could we have fed rice and beans to on our party budget?” On occasion, the two drifted back in thought to their “save the world, save the whales, save the children” days on Northwestern University’s campus. They had met there during a rally to raise money for the city’s homeless population.
“By my estimation, I think we could have underwritten a few weeks worth of meals in Brazil,” he sighed wistfully. The subject still made both of them feel a tad guilty. “We’re such successful little contradictions, aren’t we? Given our fancy degrees in sociology, it’s hard to believe we’re spending our lives in this building living like the 90’s version of the Great Gatsby and Daisy.”
Paulette nodded her head sadly. “We have this conversation on a regular basis, Jon. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re smart...we came from a good school with just enough Protestant work ethic to show up and do what we’re paid for, so it’s been an easy climb for both of us. Besides, we give a lot to charity to assuage our collective conscience, so maybe we need to give it a rest.” She was alert now...and not smiling. It was a sore spot with her, too, because they truly enjoyed having so much.
“I know, honey. This is so much more than I ever thought I would have. Sometimes it scares me. I get this creepy feeling it’s going to disappear without any warning because we’ve taken so much for granted.” A weighty silence followed his declaration, but Paulette wasn’t about to let the night end on this note.
“C’mon,” she urged. “Let’s both put on something cozy and open all that stuff we asked people not to bring. I’m wide awake at this point; how ‘bout you?”
“Yup. Tell you what, I’ll even make coffee. Let’s pretend we haven’t been married for twelve years and stay up all night. We can talk ‘til the sun comes up...”
Paulette grinned as Jon headed for their bedroom, pulling off his shirt and pants as he walked. He tossed everything on a white chaise already playing host to his jacket and tie. Off came socks and underwear. Jon pulled his favorite old sweats from the ceiling-high armoire, feeding his legs and arms into their comfortable warmth. Plush slippers donned, he headed for the kitchen to make the coffee, giving Paulette a kiss as she placed a tray with mugs on the table. Emulating her husband, she retraced his path to their bedroom, scattering her things along the way like so many cookie crumbs marking the trail home.
The coffee smelled cinnamony. Jon slid his cup under the spout to sample the first of the brew, listening to Pauli’s moves in the bedroom. He could envision her finding her long flannel nightgown and slippers, then turning down the bed covers. He knew and loved all of her habits, picturing them, one by one. When she came out of the bedroom, he detected a whiff of the lemony lotion she loved putting on her face after all the makeup came off. She never failed to thrill him with her soft presence and familiar smell.
He loved the fact that she was in his life.
* * * *
Pouring a cup of coffee for her as she sat beside the colorful pile of treasures, they began opening each. They methodically tucked gift cards back into gifts to be sure acknowledgements were taken care of right after the holiday.
“I’m bummed!” Paulette laughed, stacking the forth Lucite tube of gourmet coffee onto the floor beside its cousins. “I was absolutely sure this would be the year I could avoid writing thank-you notes by putting ‘No gifts, please!’ on the invitation.” She glanced at the ceiling, composing a mythical note: “Dear Nancy and Stu: Your gift of five hundred pounds of pistachio nuts was a surprise, to say the least. Since Jon and I have an addiction to pistachios, you’ve kept us from committing a crime to get our fix. Love, Paulette and Jon.”
“I’ll write the notes,” he countered. “You start sending out thank-yous on that order and next year we’ll be hosting the holiday party at the mental health clinic of our choice.”
“Do they have an institution that takes couples?” she asked eagerly. “If so, I’m going to write notes that sound even more extreme. Imagine. No responsibility until they declare you fit to live in society. Just time in the craft room or gazing at the garden...taking a few state-of-the-art tranquilizers each day from the nurse on the other side of the little glass window. Pajamas. All day. Maybe I’d agree to put on a robe to attend group therapy sessions. Call me crazy and forgive the pun. It sounds like heaven.”
They looked at each other wordlessly, and then she tossed over a box as she blew a kiss in his direction. “Reality check,” she said. “Your turn.” They opened the carved soaps, the glass jars, the candies and the liquor bottles, read gift tags aloud and added their own postscripts.
When the pile had winnowed down to half-a-dozen things, Paulette poured the last of the coffee, stretched out on the floor and listened to the chiming of their grandmother clock announcing four a.m. Then she walked over to the huge window running across the living room—the window that had convinced Jon and Paulette they could live without furniture for half a decade, but they could not afford to say no to calling this view their own. It never failed to thrill her when she surveyed the lakeshore. Especially tonight, as the swirling snow made the world seem magical.
“Want to hold off on the rest?” Jon whispered into her ear. He had been standing behind her for a moment before putting his arms around her waist and head atop her right shoulder. In the dim light, they looked like a two-headed Greek statue.
“No,” she said, turning into his hug, then kissing him quickly. “We’re on a mission. Let’s finish up.” Culling through the rest of the gifts didn’t take long. They found a wood crate of honey, a bottle of raspberry vinaigrette decorated with raffia and silk flowers and a wicker hamper of cheese and cookies. At last, the bottom of the heap revealed a tissue-paper-wrapped mound with a big, squashed red ribbon. It had been flattened beneath the mound of gifts.
“Who’s this from, Honey?” Paulette yawned, pushing her hand over the carpet’s pile as though it might locate the gift’s card. Jon shrugged, and then strode into the hallway in hopes of finding a card of some sort. But there was no sign of a card anywhere. Exhausted, they decided to look in the morning as they tore off the gift’s tissue wrap and stared blankly at a clear plastic bag tucked securely around a mound of cloth.
Upon closer examination, Paulette realized she was holding a blanket or quilt of some sort, decorated with what appeared to be snowflakes, log cabins, deer and evergreen trees casually placed over a dark blue background filled with a sky full of stars. Looking at each other quizzically, Jon and Paulette each wondered who would have brought such a gift. A homespun, seasonal quilt would hardly find a place to call its own amid the ultra-modern black and white apartment furnishings with all the glass and mirror expanses and leather couches. Not even their bedroom hinted of any furnishing style earlier than 1990.
“This is a definite sign we need sleep,” Paulette announced, tossing the clear bag onto the leather couch as she turned. Given the plastic against leather, it predictably slid off. “Prophetic,” she added, taking Jon’s hand and switching off the light.
“Who would have brought that?” Jon continued to mull, scratching his head as he walked. “It’s really awful...”
“Makes you wonder whether our friends know us at all,” Paulette added as she lowered her head onto her pillow with a sigh that perfectly concluded their annual open house.
* * * *
Morning
Although Maddy tried her best to move around the apartment quietly, there was no way to do what she needed to do without making an assortment of squeaks, slams and crunches. Each seemed louder than normal as she tried to whip the apartment into shape while not disturbing Paulette and Jon as they slumbered.
A sound sleeper, Paulette didn’t move a muscle as the sounds bounced off the walls of their apartment, but Jon had to contend with a full bladder that wouldn’t allow him to go back to sleep. He padded to their small bathroom with one eye open, then returned to the bed, moments later, with a thud that lifted Paulette out of her dreams.
She looked at her husband through the hair that had wrapped itself around her face, and then tried to figure out how many Bedouin families had moved into her mouth during the night. “I haven’t heard chimes,” she finally croaked.
Without moving an inch, Jon spoke into his pillow. “Clock must have wound down since we arrived here in Paris.”
“Oui,” she agreed. “You up?”
He grunted.
“Know what time it is?”
He folded his face over to check the digital clock, squinting to make out the time. “Eleven.”
“I’m gonna stay here just a minute, then I’m up,” she whispered without a shred of conviction in her voice. Before Paulette had finished the sentence, Jon began snoring. She slipped back into her coma, dreaming until Maddy knocked gently on the door about an hour later.
Since Jon and Paulette lived alone, the sound awoke them instantly. “Hello?” Jon questioned.
“It’s me, Senor Morgan,” Maddy said through the door. “Everythin’s done and I made coffee for you.”
“C’m in,” Paulette called out, tossing her hair out of her face. Maddy cracked the door when she heard Paulette’s voice and then walked in wearing a coat and hat and balancing a tray that held coffee cups, her purse, an umbrella and a hat.
“This is very kind, Maddy. Thank you!” She smiled at Paulette’s cheery comment, left the tray on the bed and walked away with a wave, closing the door behind her. In a moment, they heard the front door shut. “She thinks we’re the laziest gringos in America,” Paulette assured Jon, reaching for a cup and the coffee pot. “She’s not wrong. Wonder what time she got here this morning...”
“Want some toast? We happen to have a rather large supply of jam.” Jon recalled the larder of booty they had opened in the early hours that included the largest selection of jellies he had ever seen.
“Probably.” Paulette stretched, got out of bed, climbed into her warm robe and pulled on the pair of crew socks she’s discarded the night before. Peeking into the living room, she found everything magazine-perfect ... as though no party had taken place the night before. On the couch, the quilt looked even more out-of-place in the daylight. Its reindeer, log cabins and stars were ultra-bright with the sun shining through the windows. Paulette’s curiosity returned as she picked it up, brought it into the bedroom, then plopped down beside Jon as he lifted the day’s Chicago Tribune from the tray.
“Whoa,” he said, looking at the quilt folded neatly into the clear bag in her lap. “I thought I’d dreamed that! Guess not.”
“What a strange gift,” she said with a smile. “But it’s very familiar to me this morning. Think a minute. Doesn’t this sort of remind you of the blanket at the cabin in Michigan?” She teased him with her recovered memory.
He put down the paper and looked across the room. The light of recognition shone on his face and he patted her knee. “Yup. I know what you mean.” His mind flooded with their honeymoon trip twelve years earlier. They had been totally broke but managed to rent a cabin in Michigan for the Valentine’s Day weekend. A thick quilt on top of the bed in the honeymoon cabin was splashed with evergreen trees and deer patterns against a dark sky filled with stars.
“Reminds me of our honeymoon, too. I’m glad you remembered. Guys don’t usually recall stuff like that.” Paulette reached up to his hair and playfully ruffled it.
“Let me see it.” She slid the quilt out of its plastic bag, over her knees and into his lap. For a moment, they lost themselves in the past, returning to that remarkable weekend that often seemed light years away. Paulette pulled her robe from her shoulders and pulled her nightgown over her head. She slid one end of the quilt out of Jon’s fingers and wrapped it around her back like a shawl.
“You look very sexy in your north woods ensemble,” he whispered, reaching inside the fringed edge to touch her softly. Paulette held the blanket together with one hand as she traced Jon’s face with her finger. Years slipped away. The room disappeared. In a whisper-soft moment, the blanket whooshed down past the edges of their bed and fell to the floor. It coiled into a colorful mound of splendor as they made love.
* * * *
Night
It was the kind of day dreams are made of. Paulette and Jon struggled out of bed at 3 p.m. after deciding to defend a ten-year-long Scrabble rivalry on the living room floor. They were both giddy after having made love...hungry, too. Jon brought bags of snacks from the pantry while Paulette opened a bottle of wine. Light had already begun to dip low in the sky as Chicago’s winter pall consumed the city and brought to a conclusion one of its typical, short “Moscow” days. All that was missing, Paulette often remarked, was St. Basil’s Basilica and Red Square.
Happily, inside Jon and Paulette’s apartment, lights shone and tiles clicked as the two sat quietly immersed in their game. They sipped wine and listened to the crisp sounds of cellophane rattling each time a hand disappeared into the bag of chips or crackers. Time was not—never had been—a factor in their game: long ago, they had learned that, like respect for individual perspectives, some things needed their own time frame to be complete experiences. Scrabble was one of them. So the re-wound grandmother clock established the only reminder of time they would allow on this extraordinary day.
Paulette won two games in a row. “You’re having a lucky day!” Jon noted. “This happens to be my game.”
“Sex sharpens my mind,” she answered.
“We’ve had sex and played Scrabble before. You usually lost.”
Paulette put a hand on her hip, looking at her husband with a superior air. “Women don’t come into their prime until the 30’s. I’m prime.”
He chuckled. “To tell the truth, I let you win. It always seemed so important to you.”
She thanked him for the charity, but wasn’t about to give up her position of reigning queen. “I’m taking a shower, then I will be back to beat you at two more games.” Paulette announced, standing.
They put the game on the floor and climbed into the shower together. As steam rose within the stall, he wrote I Love You on the door and then surrounded it with a heart. Paulette washed his back, then lavished the glass shower stall with a series of baby feet she made with the heal of her hand and a finger. Wishing the day would never end, they ran the hot water heater out before climbing into a huge bath sheet together.
Paulette smoothed the bed clothing and fluffed the pillows as her hair contained its drips inside a huge terrycloth towel. When the bed looked fresh and inviting, she returned to the bathroom to comb out her hair. That's when Jon walked in with the quilt. He put it over her shoulders and looked into the mirror.
“You’re going to think I’ve lost my mind, but I kind of like this thing,” he said, grinning into the mirror. “It’s really not that ugly.” He used his finger to trace the log cabins sitting silently atop the cloth snow paths now running down her shoulders. “It makes me think about some of the things that brought us together. I sure wish I knew who gave it to us.”
“Yeah. It’s a comfortable thing, isn’t it?” She folded it up carefully, putting it at the foot of their bed while she pulled a fresh pair of sweats from her drawer. The shirt and pants smelled sweet ... like fabric softener. The cloth soothed her breasts and her shoulders.
“This blanket and the way you look right now remind me of each other,” Jon said. “So real. A safe place for me to come when just about everything else out there seems so senseless.”
Paulette studied Jon seriously. Perhaps more seriously than she had in a decade. There was a look in his face—in his eyes—something that had been alive in those eyes so many years ago. She never even realized it had vanished in the rush of their lives. Had it disappeared or had it been waiting in some thoughtful place in Jon’s soul, ready to re-emerge when the time was right? And what about her own spirit? Had it, too, taken a journey to some unknown place over the years?
“Let’s talk,” she urged. They sat, cross-legged atop the freshly made bed facing each other, both still damp from the shower and wrapped in their warm, clean clothing with nothing between them but the quilt.
“Let’s get out,” he said. She cocked her head and wished he would repeat the words again because she wasn’t quite sure he had really spoken them. “We’ve talked about it so many times. Jokingly. But, now I don’t think it’s ever been a joke. Just a wish we both had that was so frightening, we’ve never considered taking it seriously and acting on it.”
“You mean the bookstore in the little town at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains?”
“Yeah. The bookstore at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
“I never thought you were serious...just wishful thinking when work and life came close to ripping your nervous system out of your body without the help of a surgeon.” She took his hands in hers.
“How many times have we tiptoed around the subject? A million?” His eyes shone. “And it always came down to ‘as soon as we finish up what we have started to do; as soon as the obligations were paid up at our jobs. As soon as the mortgage on this place was tilted more toward us than the mortgage company.” It was true. They had agreed, talking through it so easily each time, each one taking turns at becoming the interlocutor of reason.
“We’ll wait for the portfolio to hit half a million dollars,” she had said last time the topic arose, and he was quick to agree. Before that condition, her vice-presidency was the measure they would use. But that had come and gone without either of them taking a step in the direction they claimed to want to go. All of the reasons were still there. In the air. On their lips. But something new was in the room on this darkening day. And the air was so electrically charged, they did not notice the darkness.
Strangely enough, neither reached for the light. Jon sat, cross-legged and attentive, so close to Paulette, he could sense the rhythm and flow of her breathing. The quilt covered their feet as they shifted, then nestled up against Paulette’s legs. It belonged there, spreading out its wings of familiarity over their toes, ankles and hearts. The reindeer stood in the snow. The homespun flakes were suspended as if by tiny spider-threads. And the stars shone so brightly on their blue field, they sparkled in the dark.
By midnight, Paulette had taken her legal pad and made a precise list of what she and Jon would do in the year ahead. They made a pledge, each to the other, that next Christmas would find them in a new world, or at the very least, on their way there. A realtor-friend had connections in Tennessee and the Carolinas. On Monday, they would turn Jayne lose with a broad instruction: find a small shop, an existing book shop, if possible, in a reasonably populated town within view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Jon and Paulette agreed: they would consider anything she had to propose. Their long-planned trip to Hawaii in June would be shelved. Maybe forever. They would spend their two weeks visiting the communities Jayne found for them. Neither had a doubt they would know the place the moment they drove into town.
When at last they went to bed that night, they lovingly relegated the blanket to the top of the cedar chest tucked into the closet of their guest bedroom. The chest had been the first piece of furniture they had owned together. A gift from Paulette’s mother, it had served as a coffee table, storage trunk and just about everything else that needed a surface to hold food, pictures or books.
Now, a lace cloth covered the bench-top. Inside, wedding photos, souvenirs and bits and pieces of their past were tied together with yards of invisible satin ribbon. The neatly folded quilt took its rightful place atop this treasure chest.
* * * *
Morning
Though magically transformed the night before, morning returned the outer trappings of Paulette and Jon’s life. He raced through the apartment looking for his briefcase, muttered about cabs and nearly forgot to kiss Paulette goodbye.
She ran four pairs of panty hose before one pair slid up to her waist without leaving behind a run. Short on time, Paulette dashed off a note for Maddy, saying The American Cancer Society would be stopping off to pick up donations. Would she please buzz them in when they arrive and make sure they got everything on the pile of donations that were organized in the guest room? That done, Paulette tucked the note under Maddy’s 'fridge magnet atop the dry cleaning slips and a partially composed grocery list. Maddy would figure it out. She always did.
As Paulette ran for the elevator, her heart raced and she felt giddy. For reasons that made no sense to her, she also felt a touch of panic. Leaving the apartment on this remarkable morning meant returning to the world she and her husband were hoping to leave, so the elevator’s arrival made her take a deep breath. Once inside, she began thinking about the future and even the cold of the Chicago morning didn’t dent her spirit.
Both Jon and Paulette arrived at their offices within minutes of each other. A trail of conversation followed each of them. Party compliments were offered and accepted. Faceless voices groused about having to return to work after the holiday and a general Monday morning state-of-mind swirled around each of them.
Paulette stopped in front of her office door. She ran her finger over the incised sign reading “Paulette Morgan, Vice President,” wondering if they would let her take the sign when she left. “Will I even want to take it?” she whispered. The thought made her laugh.
She put her purse into her desk as she did every morning and looked out the window of the corner office that had once meant so much to her. At the same moment, Jon leaned across his desk and glanced from his window, just blocks away. He took in all the white-topped roofs and tinges of brick and metal peeking out from the snow, all of it sparkling in the winter sun as though an army of angels had dusted glitter over Chicago during the night.
And so the two of them went about their work with no less resolve than they had a few days earlier, but with the addition of a shared dream somewhere between their heads.
Of course, Maddy knew nothing of the change. She went about her work with her usual efficiency, taking down the cleaning receipts, pulling Paulette’s note about the Cancer Society pick-up from the refrigerator and ignoring what she figured to be an incomplete grocery list.
Removing the laundry from its hamper, Maddy put the first load of wash into the machine and while the washer cycled through its load, she would take care of Senora Paulette’s request.
The door to the guest bedroom stood ajar. Inside, a cedar chest with a quilt atop its lace cover rested beside several shopping and plastic bags. Only one bag was marked “Donations,” but Maddy knew everything was to be included. She dumped shoes, clothing, chipped dishes and other household goods into the box, removing a few things from the pile for her family. Paulette always encouraged her to take whatever she could use whenever Maddy prepared a donation box.
Once everything had been arranged in the box, Maddy picked up the Christmas quilt folded atop the chest. “Dios, Mio,” she muttered, examining the cloth pattern. She glanced around the guest room and beyond the doorway to the living room as if to question the coverlet that, even by her estimation, did not belong there. Satisfied that it didn’t, she carefully placed it over the box of donations going to the Cancer Society.
As if on cue, the buzzer rang. While she waited for the driver to come upstairs, Maddy stared at the quilt atop the box and scratched her head. Then she looked again at the living room with its white leather, black swags and Lucite candles.
“No way,” she said proudly, having adopted the phrase from her son. She efficiently handed the box off to the man at the door, took a receipt and got on with her chores.
Chapter Two
Joanna & Lydia
Morning
When Joanna had run out of patience trying to find a girl’s name she could live with for the baby she expected in February, she cut a deal with God. It would be this simple: She would open the Bible she kept tucked between Anne Rice and Joyce Carol Oates and He would reveal an ideal choice. She closed her eyes, opened to a page and scanned it for her baby’s name, assuming it would be assigned by divine intervention. Unfortunately, she couldn’t go back on the deal...even when she discovered the only female name on the two-page spread was “Lydia.”
“Lydia rhymes with hideous,” Rob responded without blinking. “This had better be a boy.”
Deals being what they are, Joanna delivered a girl on Valentine’s Day. When the hospital employee, charged with the responsibility of completing the paperwork needed for a birth certificate, began filling in the lines and boxes on the application, she was too busy to notice Joanna flinch when she responded “Lydia Joy” to the question of the baby’s given name.
Lydia Joy was born in the year of Jennifer, Tracy, Lisa and Amy. The names appeared with alarming regularity in newspaper columns listing new births. Lydia Joy, on the other hand, was the only one. Joanna mulled the fact. Perhaps she shouldn’t have allowed the Almighty to exert His will, after all.
As fate would have it, Lydia Joy grew to adolescence less than joyful. Joanna always wondered if her daughter’s melancholy had begun in the womb the day her unorthodox naming ceremony took place. Seventeen years later, the thought still wandered Joanna's brain as she sorted clothing and household goods during her volunteer day at the Cancer Society’s Clearing Center.
She looked over the piles of clothing routinely. Much of what Chicagoans left at collection centers and handed over to volunteer drivers was too shabby to re-sell, but the effort regularly culled enough gems to make the collection drive worthwhile. Joanna’s job was to be the arbiter of goods, piling discards into bags, then neatly stacking the useable items into categories of “ready to sell,” or “needs to be washed, mended or fixed.”
On this particular February morning, the winds howled and the streets were iced with compacted snow that refused to disappear despite plows scuffing earnestly at the streets. Their efforts set off sparks as sharp-edged blades made contact with the ice. The sound reminded Joanna of her previous night’s attempt at detente: Lydia’s birthday. The celebration started off nicely enough, but after Rob left, some insignificant remark Joanna couldn’t recall began the evening’s battle. Its timbre was reminiscent of the snowplows on the street: annoying, angry and harsh.
“I’m at a point of no return,” she finally told Suzanne, a fellow volunteer. Suzanne had brought in her boom box and was accompanying the love songs it played in a key that was not yet recognized by the music world. To encourage her to stop singing, Joanna continued her monologue in a louder voice. “On a certain day each February, I get so cold when I look out at the ice on the streets, hot showers, heaters and blankets have no effect on my body chemistry.”
Suzanne laughed. “You could wish for an early menopause. I’ve been known to jump out of my car in a blizzard to put gas in my tank just to cool down.” Joanna grunted at the suggestion. “I guess a few days in Mexico beats hot flashes,” Suzanne added.
Joanna pondered that idea. Palm trees. Sugar-white beaches. Before the fantasy evolved into a splash of aqua surf, Lydia burst in the door stamping snow and ice off her boots. “Why aren’t you in school?” Joanna asked, clearly more annoyed than concerned.
Suzanne always wondered about the wars between these two, but she was wise enough to keep her mouth shut. Having children of her own, Suzanne knew that any break in Lydia’s school day spelled “problem,” and after Joanna’s description of the previous night’s argument, Lydia’s unannounced arrival could hardly be good news.
“I have to talk to you.” Lydia’s voice had an edge. She pulled off her hat, mittens and scarf to reveal flattened hair, a magenta nose and glazed eyes that might have been a result of the cold if Joanna hadn’t suspected something major brewing over the past few weeks.
Weary from all the battling, Joanna didn’t particularly want to talk to her daughter about whatever today’s trauma involved since Lydia had long ago taken to informing Joanna her business was personal. But what was it this time? Was she failing? Booted out of school with only a year to go to graduate? Drugs? Guns? God, the list was endless. Joanna took a deep breath and ventured forth again, “Why aren’t you in school.”
“The nurse sent me here to talk to you.” Lydia said in such a small voice, Suzanne could not make out a word. “She said I couldn’t come back to school until I talked to you.”
AIDS. She has AIDS. Lord, let it be herpes. Or something penicillin-curable, Joanna thought. The words rushed across her mind. I’m suffering from out-of-control mind...and I can’t seem to stop it. Is this what other mothers go through, she wondered?
Joanna considered “The perfect mothers.” The ones who still had husbands...whose children weren’t insolent and troublesome. She wondered what it would be like to have a child who smiled spontaneously...who didn’t always seem to have some deep-seated anger waiting to erupt whenever an innocuous “What’s the matter?” inquiry was translated as parental nosiness. Do mothers who make good name choices suffer from Angry Child Syndrome? Joanna ruminated, as Lydia stood before her with news she would rather not hear.
By this time, Suzanne was staring at Joanna, wondering why she had lapsed into silence. Why didn’t she drop the stupid sweater she was holding and take Lydia to a corner of the shop? Give her tea. Take her to lunch. Do something. Suzanne cleared her throat and nodded in Joanna’s direction, silently urging her to steer Lydia to the Formica table in the rear. There, a coffee pot and cookies along with a modicum of privacy would allow them to talk.
Joanna finally got Suzanne’s signal and steered Lydia toward the rear of the shop. She took a filter from the box, dumped a pre-measured package of coffee into its holder, and then switched on the machine.
“I’m pregnant.” Lydia said it in a tiny voice Joanna had never heard before. The words caught her entire being by surprise. She tried to compose her thoughts as she turned around, looking at Lydia in disbelief. Joanna shook her head from left to right, opened her mouth and tried to make something come out, but no words offered themselves. At last she spoke. “I think you’d better go back to school. Tell the nurse you delivered your news. We can talk at home.” Her voice was flat.
For probably the first time in a decade, Lydia stood up without uttering a signature string of sarcastic remarks. She simply sighed, grabbed her hat, scarf and gloves, then walked down the aisle, her rubber boots squishing across the cement floor. She didn’t remember to zip her coat before going outside.
Suzanne didn’t ask. Joanna didn’t volunteer. They sorted clothing, side-by-side, the romantic music playing solo in the background. Joanna methodically reached the bottom of the stack she’d picked as her stopping point, unrolling a lumpy mound of cloth decorated with homespun patterns. “This looks brand new,” she said aloud, surprised that her voice cracked and her jaw snapped. She must have been clenching her teeth as she finished the stack.
The words also startled Suzanne. She looked over at the cloth Joanna held, and then cocked her head to one side. “Looks like one of those holiday quilts to me,” she ventured, noting the border with its colorful edging. “Brand new. Someone got a Christmas present they didn’t like,” she concluded aloud. “Should bring in a nice donation. These are popular sellers around the holidays.”
Joanna smoothed the cloth with her fingers, opening the quilt one more fold to study the individual designs: log cabins, reindeer, and neat rows of snowflakes in red and green. “Only problem is, this thing is seasonal...it might not sell until Christmas.”
Suzanne removed her apron. “That’s it for me. Gotta get home. I’ve got about three hours to get everything done before the kids get home from school.” After she had said it, Suzanne looked over at Joanna and recalled Lydia’s visit. She had no idea what had gone on between them, but her heart felt great compassion for the pair. She gave Joanna a tender hug, and then grabbed her coat from the rack by the door. “You have my phone number if you need it.”
Joanna nodded. She wouldn’t call.
* * * *
Night
Lydia didn’t come home after school. Joanna tried phoning a few friends, but she wasn’t at any of their homes and she wasn’t about to call her ex-husband. He wouldn’t be able to resist launching into a tirade about Joanna’s inability to nurture, be intimate, care about anything or anyone beyond herself. And of course, she would stay on the phone as Rob ranted, listening to it all, because that’s what she always did.
When the anger built to a certain level, Joanna usually exploded with: “If you think I’m such a bad mother, why don’t you take some responsibility for her? Why don’t you even show up when you say you’re gonna be here?” This would invariably lead to Rob’s needling comments about his new wife not wanting to put up with the results of Joanna’s bad mothering, at which point, the two would dig themselves further into the impossible war of words they had visited too many times before.
On Joanna’s list of people she had not yet called was Jeff. She called him “the boyfriend.” The thought of him made her blood pressure rise. She took advantage of its elevated state by chopping extra onions for the spaghetti sauce and unloading the dishwasher, a job usually assigned to Lydia. When the phone interrupted her chopping, it frightened her and she jumped. She picked it up without wiping her hands, sure it was Lydia with some feeble excuse for not being home yet. The odor of onions assaulted her eyes and made her wince.
“Mrs. Green?” The voice was female...the sounds behind it, bureaucratic; an office complete with slamming cabinets and ringing phones. The caller turned out to be a policewoman.
“We have your daughter, Lydia, at our precinct.” Joanna thought the voice tried to deliver the news as compassionately as her job would allow. “Can you come and get her? A squad car brought her in an hour ago, but we just pried your phone number out of her.” There was a moment of silence, then the voice delivered an addendum. “Oh...she’s alright. Just cold and pretty upset.”
Joanna was stunned. She mumbled “Just a second,” then fished for her brain as she looked through the desk drawer for paper and pen. The first pen didn’t write and the second one was too faint to read, but at last she located a pencil, asking, “What’s the address?”
Joanna remembered to ask for exact directions before throwing on her shoes, coat, scarf, hat and gloves. She had gone as far as lifting the garage door when it dawned on her she had left the stove on.
Muttering under her breath, she opened the kitchen door, checked all the burners and looked around to see if anything else needed shutting down. Back in the car, she made the trip to the precinct in just less than fifteen minutes. All the while, her mind was alarmingly blank.
The station resembled the beehives so often depicted in movies and on television. It was 8 p.m., but it might as well have been noon.
* * * *
The receptionist took Joanna to a desk in the middle of the room, introduced her to a white-shirted detective with a half-knotted tie, then left her to sit as he tried to input the information she was giving him into his computer terminal.
“I’m from the old typewriter school,” he apologized, after asking twice for her street address because he had accidentally deleted it. The sign in front of his desk read Detective Dennis Wolenski.
“Where’s Lydia?” Joanna asked, at last. She was beginning to be fearful that something had happened and they were purposely not letting her see her child.
“Jackie Linden, the officer who found her, took her down for a bowl of soup. She was pretty cold when we found her and it took a while to get your name out of her. Gutsy kid.” He studied Joanna’s face for a moment. “Want some coffee?” he asked. She didn’t, but she said yes to be polite. It was the story of her life.
“Cream? Sugar? Pink or blue stuff?” He stood in front of her with the cup extended. Now that she had her hands around the mug, the coffee did look inviting. “We, uh...found her in the entryway of a storefront on Kedzie,” he offered, filling his own mug with coffee. She stared at the chipped ceramic cup in his hand with its partially missing decal. She read DE N S. Delaware, she thought. North? South?
Then it dawned on her: once-upon-a-time, it was Dennis.
“Would you like to talk to me before she comes back...?” His sentence trailed off. “Trust me...I’m as quiet as a shrink and you already paid for my time when you wrote your tax check.” He made the offer in a lighthearted way since the woman in front of him looked so fragile.
“She...you said she’s OK.” Joanna finally asked. The question was genuine, laced with a concern she hadn’t felt earlier that day.
“Yeah. Fine. Cold...scared. Won’t talk much. We had quite a time getting your number.” It was the third time Joanna had heard this tidbit since arriving. She produced a wry smile, followed by a trembling lip. Then the tears began coming in great waves, accompanied by sobs she couldn’t control. It appeared precinct personnel were used to hearing crying, shouting and wailing, because Joanna’s sobs didn’t attract as much notice as she felt they should. She imagined her grief was bouncing off walls and into file cabinets. There might have been five...maybe 10...years of anguish coming out.
DE N S of the chipped coffee mug had a hunch it might take a while to calm her down, so he took her shoulders, pushed, pulled and guided Joanna out of the common area to a room with two chairs and a table. He closed the door. Soon, her sobs began to lessen and she began to shudder. The detective handed over her coffee. A box of tissue appeared in front of her.
“I’ll make the offer again. Why don’t you tell me about it?” His voice was soft. Was he really concerned, or was this his practiced compassion, a skill learned at the police academy? He persisted. “I know it’s a cliché, but you really will feel better if you get it out.”
Joanna started at him. “She’s miserable. I’m miserable.”
“I doubt that this will come as a great revelation, but I never run into a teen or parent of a teen these days who’s not miserable. Show me a family who’s happy these days and I’ll show you a giant bottle of Prozac or Valium in the medicine cabinet with everyone’s name on the label.”
His comment made her laugh. “Your kid seems a little mouthy, but I like her. She’s a ray of sunshine compared to the kids I get in here day and night. Any idea what she was doing sitting in the doorway at ACCC?”
Joanna thought a moment and suddenly the address on Kedzie and the initials registered. Lydia had been found in the doorway at the Cancer Clearing Center. Had she even gone back to school after they talked? Joanna tried to think. Was she out there all this time?
“She’s pregnant,” Joanna added. The words might as well have been spoken in Babylonian. They sounded that foreign coming from her lips. She looked into the eyes of the detective.
“You just find out?” No surprise was evident in his eyes or voice. He must hear this sort of news every day. That and more.
“This afternoon. I sent her back to school...told her we’d talk about it tonight.” Joanna’s words were cushioned in sadness. She knew that “real mothers,” the ones who weren’t filled up with anger at themselves, uttered soothing words, not sad ones. Let’s go home now and talk about it, honey. Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.
“Is there a guy in the picture?” The detective asked.
* * * *
Joanna bristled defensively. “She doesn’t sleep around. She has a boyfriend. His name is Jeff.” As his name came out, the door opened and Lydia walked in looking younger than she had that afternoon...like a baby. A tired little girl. Underneath the jeans and the jacket now lived another baby. They were like Russian nesting dolls, Joanna thought. One inside the other.
Lydia stood silently. She studied the floor from her vantage point inside the doorway. A female officer stood behind her. When it appeared no one was going to move, Dennis stood and put out his hand. “C’mon over here,” the detective said warmly. When she didn’t budge, he walked over, put his arm around her and escorted her inside. “Want something to drink?”
There was no refrigerator or coffee machine in the room. Both Lydia and Joanna realized they would be left alone together if she said yes. The detective sensed their panic, but he knew they would have to be alone eventually. It made sense to do it here...before they got home. He walked past the policewoman and closed the door behind them.
“You alright?” Joanna finally asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you go back to school after we talked?”
“Give it a rest, Mother.” Lydia’s eyes were huge as a cat’s. Angry. Defiant. They stared at each other. “I don’t like you much,” Lydia finally said, too exhausted to pretend. An intelligent child, she realized they were in a neutral place where the rules were suspended. Here, politeness could go its own way...along with games and improbable conversations devoid of feeling or genuine caring. There was just the two of them. No television. No phones. No one running interference.
“I don’t like you much, either,” Joanna finally said.
“You never liked me.” It was Lydia’s classic comeback.
“Believe me it has nothing to do with you. I’m not mother material. Never have been. Don’t you understand?” The unguarded response made Lydia’s lip start to quiver, but she quickly pulled back with resolve and looked at her mother.
“I don’t know what I should be saying to you at this point,” Lydia began. “What can I say? I can talk to everyone else. My friends’ mothers. Jeff. Even Daddy.” This last volley stung. Lydia adored her father. Even when he failed to show up or remember her birthday, she still clung to a little girl’s image of her wonderful Daddy. Lydia always forgave his perfectly awful behavior.
“I’m not joking when I tell you that I don’t think I came with the right equipment to be a mother,” Joanna responded. “When my friends talked about getting married and having babies, I always thought they were a bit odd. I never saw myself with kids. Your Dad once told me if I ever told you that, he’d personally make sure I lost custody of you.”
“Did you care?”
“Care about what?”
“Custody.” Lydia felt the word with her tongue. “Keeping me.”
“Of course I cared!”
“Why? Ego? Gotta be right? If you can’t have me no one can...even if you didn’t want me?” Lydia’s voice was insistent as she selected, then spilled her feelings across the linoleum tiled floor of the bricked room painted the strangest shade of green she had ever seen. “Well, I’m going to be a great mother,” Lydia announced, eyes full of fire.
“And just how are you planning to do this?” Joanna spit back. “You’re not out of high school yet. You have no money. And there’s no father around to take care of either of you.”
“I’ll get a job and finish school at night,” Lydia answered smugly.
“You know everything, don’t you? You know just how easy it will be. Well, let me give you a reality check, LJ. You can’t have this baby for at least a dozen reasons. I have no intention of supporting it. You have no way to do that. This discussion is at an end.”
“No, let me tell you what I’m doing,” the girl shouted back. “I’ve already talked to Mindy. Her mom says I can live with her until the baby is born. If your insurance won’t cover me, the school nurse will help me get medical benefits so you don’t have to worry about giving me or the baby a dime.” Lydia stopped to catch her breath.
Before Joanna could counter Lydia’s argument, the girl put up her hand to silence her and continued. “In case you’re interested, I have no intention of marrying Jeff. I’m too young. And I don’t want him in my life for the next fifty years or so. He’s a jerk. I found out late, but not too late to avoid pushing him out of my life.”
Lydia’s plans were in such logical order, Joanna found herself looking at her daughter in a new way. She planned improbably...but nevertheless, she took action. For perhaps the first time in years, Joanna detected a majestic sort of strength in her daughter. She had seen it when she was young. The day she refused to allow several bad falls to stop her from staying on her bike. The time she was turned down for the swim team and vowed to make it the following year. She didn't give up. Only this time, it would take more than band-aids or extra practice to make things right.
They were interrupted when the door opened. Both officers entered with glasses of juice and papers. “I’ll need you to sign these, Mrs. Green,” the woman said, putting her arm around LJ as though she had known her forever. This stranger cared for my daughter, Joanna thought. Took care of her. Fed her soup. Patted her arm as the world looked dizzy and confusing. I made spaghetti sauce. Lydia watched as her mother signed all the documents. They both took a deep breath when the time to leave had come.
The night air was so frigid, it almost took their collective breath away. Crunching over the ice coated parking lot, Lydia shook her arm away as Joanna reached to steady her over a glassy patch.
Joanna let herself into the driver’s side, sliding over to unlock the passenger door. Lydia climbed in and the two drove home without uttering a single word. Once they got into the house, Lydia ran upstairs...coat and all...and locked herself in her room.
* * * *
Morning
Joanna’s head buzzed as though she had drunk an entire bottle of cheap wine the night before. Being hung over from emotion was worse than being hung over from liquor. At least the alcohol would dissipate in a matter of hours.