Nora and Liz (13 page)

“Sure. Of course.” Awkwardly, wondering why she felt so clumsy, Liz sliced two of the biscuits horizontally and put them on the gold-trimmed white plates that Nora handed her before she reached onto the counter and produced two bowls, one of crushed juicy berries and the other of small whole ones. “They’re wild,” Nora said. “But some are wilder than others. The big squashed ones are ones we planted eons ago; I don’t take much care of them
any more
, but the plants still produce berries. And the little ones are Alpines, very sweet but not always very juicy. These"—she ladled crushed berries onto the biscuit halves—"have been sitting in sugar, rendering their juice, and these"—she topped the biscuits with cream and then added a few whole berries to each—"are the garnish. Dig in!”

“I would,” Liz said, feeling around on the table for a fork, “but…”

“Oh, good grief!” Nora clapped her hand to her head. “Forks!” She leapt up, brushing past Liz on her way to a drawer under the far counter. Liz, charmed, fought off an absurd desire to seize her around the waist and hug her, for Nora’s consternation at having forgotten the forks had turned her efficiency into a most appealing fluster.

“What a goose I am!” Nora came back, handing Liz a fork. “Here you are. Now you can dig in.” She watched anxiously as Liz took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Okay?”

“Okay!” Liz exclaimed. “Perfect. I have never,” she said solemnly—sincerely, too—“tasted any strawberry shortcake this good.”

“It’s all right that it’s on biscuits?” Nora asked, still anxiously, taking a bite herself.

“Absolutely,” Liz said with her mouth full. She waved her empty fork before cutting the next piece. “In New York, if you ask for strawberry shortcake, they usually put it on cake, but my mother used to make it like this, and as far as I’m concerned, anything else is a cheap imitation.”

“You must be a New Englander, then. Or your mother must be.”

“I am,” Liz said. “Born in Boston, transplanted to Connecticut at a young age, and moved to New York City right after college. Mom was from Maine, Dad was from New Hampshire. And since the cabin’s here in Rhode Island, we’ve hit almost all the New England states.”

“Was?” Nora said, looking solicitous.

“Hmm?” Liz was busy with another mouthful.

“You said ‘was,’ about your parents.”

“Oh—yes. Mom died of breast cancer five years ago.” Liz tried to sound matter-of-fact. “And Dad of a heart attack this past spring.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s okay. I miss them, but…Well, maybe it’s better than living on into old age and going through all the stuff old people go through, you know? Well, of course,” she added, flustered herself then. “Of course you know!”

“Yes.” Nora spooned up berries. “I do. I certainly do.”

A noise behind one of the closed doors made them both turn, and Liz was conscious of a clumping sound right before the door opened. Nora’s father appeared in the opening.

“Who’s that?” he said crossly. “I thought I heard voices!”

Nora got up and went to him, steadying him with her arms; Liz stood as well. “This is Liz Hardy,” she said. “You remember. She stopped in last month…”

“I’m the one who borrowed the jack.” Liz held out her hand, but Ralph ignored it. “How are you, Mr.
Tillot
?”

“Not well,” he growled. “So you brought the jack back finally, did you?”

“She brought it back weeks ago,” Nora said. “I told you that, Father.”

“And I sure was grateful to have it,” Liz said quickly, struggling to be polite and cheerful, but appalled all over again at this brusque, grizzled man whose eyes flashed equal amounts of anger and suspicion. He seemed more stooped than when she’d first seen him, and much more hostile. “It just about saved my life that day.”

“
Harumph
. Shouldn’t need a jack if you’re a careful driver.”

“Father!” Nora said in a loud whisper. “You know that’s not true. Accidents happen.”

“I think I ran over a nail,” Liz said. “Or maybe there was a nail already in the tire when I left New York. It was a rental car.”

“Don’t hold with rented things.” Ralph lurched toward the table. “Nora, I’m dizzy.”

“Maybe you should go back to bed, then, Father.” Nora moved swiftly behind him and put her hands on his waist.

But he pulled out a chair and toppled into it. “More shortcake?” He peered at the half-full plates. “No wonder you didn’t eat much at supper. Planning a secret party, weren’t you?”

“Would you like some?” Nora asked.

He shook his head. “My stomach’s no good.” He turned to Liz. “Cancer,” he whispered behind his hand.

“I’m sorry.” Liz glanced at Nora, who shook her head. “That must be very difficult.”

“It is. Maybe,” he said to Nora, “a small piece.”

She cut him half a biscuit and passed him the bowls. He ladled berries and cream generously over the half, and then topped it with the other half, adding more cream and a single berry to the top. “There,” he said triumphantly.

“It’s nice that you’ve got such a good appetite,” Liz couldn’t resist saying.

“Some days it’s not too bad,” he said. “But I didn’t eat much all day, did I, Nora?”

“Well…” Nora began.

But he interrupted, saying to Liz, “You’ll be going back where you came from soon, I expect.”

“I’ll be going back to my cabin on
Yellowfin
Lake. I’ll be staying there all summer. And,” she added impulsively, “I was hoping Nora could give me some gardening pointers.”

“Nora’s too busy to give ‘pointers,’” Ralph growled. “She’s got work to do in the house and when she’s outside, she has to tend her own garden, not teach. Isn’t that right, Nora?”

“I think I could spare a little time now and then.” Nora smiled at Liz. “I’d like to, in fact.”

“Now and then.” Ralph pushed his plate away. “Make sure it’s more
then
than now. Help me back into bed, Nora.” He struggled to stand, and then slipped. But it’s as if, Liz thought, grabbing for one of his arms as Nora grabbed for the other, he’s purposely teetering.

“Don’t push me!” Ralph barked angrily at Liz.

“I’ll be right back,” Nora said, steering him and his walker hastily out of the room.

While Nora was gone, Liz took the empty dishes to the sink and worked the pump handle up and down till a thin stream of cold water emerged. She looked around for a pot, then saw there was a black iron kettle already on the stove over one of the warm, lid-covered burners. Remembering a toy old-fashioned cook stove she and Jeff had played with at their grandmother’s, she looked around for a handle for the burner lid, found one, and moved the kettle. Then she dipped the handle into the hole on the lid, lifting it and exposing the glowing coals inside the stove. She replaced the kettle and sat down to wait for the water to get hot enough for doing dishes.

She was just getting up again to look for some kind of soap when Nora came back carrying a plastic urinal. “Sorry,” she said. “He’s like a little boy. Has to—to go to the bathroom, wants a drink of water, etcetera, etcetera. I’ll be right…You’ve got the kettle on! And you’ve cleared the table, and rinsed the plates, too!”

Liz grinned. “Even us twenty-first century types can—I don’t know…”

“Cope with time travel?” Nora smiled. “Thank you. Back in a jiffy.”

When she came back, she disappeared into her father’s bedroom again and Liz could hear her voice and Ralph’s through the walls. They seemed to be arguing about something, so she rummaged under the sink, where she found a dishpan and a long-handled wire pouch full of soap ends. Liz filled the dishpan and managed to make soap film on the warm water by swishing the pouch back and forth. She washed the plates and was just rinsing them by pouring hot water over them in their rack when Nora came back in and leaned against the door frame watching her.

“You are a marvel,” she said. “This is the first time anyone but me has washed a dish in this house in years. Nothing like making your guests work. The least I can do is offer you some coffee. Or tea.”

“Coffee,” Liz said. “Thank you. That’d be wonderful.”

While the coffee brewed, Nora and Liz sat companionably at the kitchen table, talking in low voices, mostly about gardening, and Nora agreed to answer Liz’s questions whenever she had time. “Maybe I could even come over and have a look at your garden,” she said, “some Friday. That’s usually the day Mrs. Brice takes me shopping.”

“I could do that,” Liz offered, “take you shopping. And give your Mrs. Brice a break.”

“I think Mrs. Brice likes doing it,” Nora said. “But maybe you could take me on the day I come to look at your garden.”

“How about this coming Friday?” Liz asked quickly, afraid that if she didn’t pin her down, Nora would never come.

Nora got up to get the coffee. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll check with Mrs. Brice. She did say something about her daughter and son-in-law coming to visit. She’d probably welcome the time off then.”

“Great!” Liz accepted a large stoneware cup of coffee. “That’s settled, then.”

“Well,” said Nora, “almost, anyway.”

At midnight, Nora sat sleeplessly at the kitchen table trying to proofread. Pink-gold light from the kerosene lamp made a flickering pattern on the galley page in front of her; moonlight cascaded disturbingly through the window. “Moon’s nearly full,” she mused, seeing Thomas sitting in the path it made across the floor. “No wonder I’m restless.”

The book she was proofing was absorbing. It had been hard, so far, to concentrate on finding typos, for the story had sucked her in and she liked the characters; she’d had to read many a page more than once.

But now it was even hard to concentrate on the story. She felt oddly excited, as if a new chapter of her life had begun that evening while she’d been having strawberry shortcake with Liz. How silly, she told herself; it was only strawberry shortcake!

Yes, but a friend! Another person “my own age,” as in: “Play with someone your own age. Pick on someone your own age. Isn’t there anyone your own age around for you to have fun with?”

There hadn’t been since high school. Then there had been Marsha. Nora leaned back, her pencil making absent-minded circles on a blank sheet in front of her. Marsha was married now, with, how many was it? Two? No, perhaps three children; Marsha with her long pony-tailed hair, her red lipstick (but only on weekends), and the dates she told Nora about each Monday lunchtime. Nora remembered Marsha’s first kiss. (Did Marsha?) The boy was named Tim, and he had the beginnings of a mustache; Marsha said it tickled. They’d giggled over that; Nora smiled, remembering.

Three years ago, soon after Corinne’s stroke and the birth of Marsha’s most recent baby, Nora and Marsha were still writing each other regularly, and they’d joked about how now they both had diapers to change, Marsha, the baby’s and Nora, her mother’s. But the joke had worn thin, and the letters gradually slowed until now they arrived only at Christmas. Since her marriage (to a man named Victor, not Tim), Marsha had sent annual computer-printed accounts of skiing and camping and Victor’s and her own work, plus, later, enthusiastic descriptions of how well the children were doing in school/music lessons/sports. Nora had read those letters with envy at first, but for the last few years, their contents had seemed so remote, so outside her own life, that they bored her. And she’d stopped writing Marsha, for what was there to say?

Her other friend (Nora got up and pumped herself a glass of water, then settled again with Thomas on her lap, curled and purring)—her other friend had been Peter, gentle handsome, kind Peter. He’d walked her home from school and after a while had asked her to the movies, but she wasn’t allowed to go. “Never mind,” he’d said and had gone on walking her home, but he’d asked other girls to the movies. Sometimes, when Ralph was away on one of his infrequent sales trips, Corinne had let her have Marsha or Peter to supper; they were fascinated by the way the
Tillots
lived. Marsha had wanted to learn how to use the big cook stove, and Peter had sometimes chopped wood for them if they were running low. For the last ten years or so now, Ralph had claimed to be unable to do that job, and since he wouldn’t let Nora do it, he’d arranged to buy stove-length wood by the cord, although he’d grumbled at the cost.

Peter, Nora thought, stroking Thomas, made me laugh. She remembered the day he’d done cartwheels in the front yard and pretended to walk on a tightrope; Mama had laughed, too. And he’d told them the plots of movies, elaborately, with gestures and different voices for the different characters.