Paper, Scissors, Death (9 page)

I could tell. She definitely got my vote for Miss Congeniality.

Merrilee sighed. “That’s when her drinking got out of hand. She’s always been a party girl. I think she had a little something before the bridal shower.”

A little something? Her second-hand fumes nearly gave me a buzz.

“We’ve been friends ever since high school, even though she’s older than I am. This is my second marriage. I moved home and took back my maiden name. I’m ready to settle down. But not Roxanne. Like, the rest of us grew up, but she didn’t. She blew through what she inherited from her dad. He was this famous botanist. Developed all these drugs from plants. Now she’s busted. I think all of us have loaned her money.”

Could these women even spell J-O-B? Had it never occurred to Roxanne to go to work?

Merrilee smiled. “Poor Roxie. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself. Kind of weird that both of you scrapbook.”

Right. Weird. That covered it. Not so much.

“Anyway.” A flip of her hand showed off the huge sparkler on her ring finger. “I want you to do my wedding album.”

I had a hunch the words “I want” came out of her mouth a lot. Like on an regular basis.

She continued, “And I want a bachelor album for Jeff. And I want an album devoted to his boyhood. From me to his mom. Can you do all that?”

By the time Merrilee left, she’d committed to nearly three thousand dollars worth of custom scrapbooking. Dodie told her we needed a nonrefundable deposit. Merrilee pouted. I was panicked we’d lose the commission, but our customer gave in.

“You’ll thank me,” Dodie said after the bride left. “I know these people. They change their minds on a whim and expect you to eat the costs.”

I guess she had conveniently forgotten that once upon a time, I’d been one of “these people.” I decided not to remind her.

It was too late for lunch. I needed to pick up Anya from her grandmother’s. I hoped to spend an hour and a half of quality time with my child before the babysitter—an older teen I made a prom album for—showed up, and I returned to the store to oversee the crop. Plus, I needed to pick up the Lemon Poke Cake I’d made when it was cool this morning.

On my way to Sheila’s, I sent God a thank-you prayer. What had seemed like a horrible, embarrassing Saturday afternoon at the Witherow home was now going to pay our rent for the next three months. Almost equally important, Merrilee’s rambling commentary about Roxanne convinced me I needed to know a whole lot more about the woman—and Time in the Bottle was the perfect base for my sleuthing.

I stood on my mother-in-law’s front step, ringing the doorbell for the second time that afternoon. Sheila’s smooth green lawn rolled on and on behind me like the vast turf of a golf course. White columns tall as sequoias framed her front door and extended to the third floor with enough space in the middle to accommodate a balcony overlooking the front yard. Glazed pots of varying sizes overflowed with trailing petunias, pungent geraniums, and spiky dracaenas. From the scale to the textures, everything about the Lowenstein family home lived up to the word “grand.”

To my surprise, my mother-in-law opened the door herself rather than having her maid, Linnea, act as butler. The heat wave beginning that morning had picked up vigor during the day. I was wilting.

“Back so soon?” she asked. I’d just picked up my daughter less than an hour ago.

“Sheila, I need a favor. The electricity is out in my house. It’s hotter than blue blazes inside. Can Anya spend the night with you?”

My mother-in-law’s hard face softened as she spotted her granddaughter pulling a rolling overnight case from the trunk of my ancient BMW. I stood holding Anya’s book bag and mopping sweat from my brow.

Despite the unseasonable heat, Sheila wore full-length white linen pants topped with a silk blouse in a soft shade of green. On her feet were embroidered mules, gold with green sequins and beads. As per usual, George’s mother looked cool, confident, and wealthy. I could tell she was coming out of her depression because she’d taken to wearing clothes with color again.

By contrast I looked pretty LMC, lower middle class. After losing so much weight, nothing fit me. My new wardrobe could be summed up in a birdcall: Cheap, cheap, cheap. I had on a cute pair of cotton pants I found marked down at Target and a sleeveless blouse with a Talbots label I picked up for $3 at Goodwill. On my feet were navy-blue Keds.

Sheila glared at me.

Even though I wished I could turn and walk away, I stood my ground. Whatever else Sheila was, she was a doting grandmother. Anya was her only grandchild, and as far as I knew, her only living relative. The love in the older woman’s eyes as she watched her granddaughter trudge up the paved sidewalk made my heart ache. How Sheila missed George! He’d been such a devoted son, taking his mother to dinner at least once a week and calling her daily. How I wished Sheila and I could turn to each other!

When we first met, I thought maybe she’d be my “adopted” mother. George spoke highly of her, and from what he’d told me, there was much to commend. The hope of having a loving relationship with a mother figure had my heart all aflutter, but the instant Sheila laid eyes on me with my unruly head of curls and my baby face, I knew I was going to have to take a pass on maternal concern. At least in this lifetime.

My own mother, Lucia Montgomery, never paid much attention to me. Only recently, as the vagaries of old age weakened her, had she discovered any reason to pay attention to my younger sister, Amanda. Mom phoned just last week from her home in Arizona to share the exciting news that “we are related to Anne Hutchinson, the Alford, England, native who came to these shores as a pilgrim and whose fervent belief in the rights of women made her an outcast.”

I appreciated hearing about Anne, since she and I seemed to have that outcast thing going for us, but hello? I couldn’t help thinking: Mom, my husband died seven months ago, and I’m kinda struggling here, so could you pause in your genealogical exploits long enough to ask how I am? No. She couldn’t. If my daughter and I passed my mother in an airport, she wouldn’t recognize us. She’s simply not that interested in our lives. That’s why she upped sticks and moved to Arizona right after Dad died, and she could sell the family home in Illinois. Being close to me wasn’t a priority.

Correction: I wasn’t a priority. Never had been. Never would be. In fact, I didn’t even show up on her radar screen.

Sheila Lowenstein was my mother’s polar opposite. She had built her life around her son, and now she transferred every smidgeon of that affection to the deep love she already felt for Anya.

Yet, somehow, she managed to overlook the fact Anya was the product of two people. And I was half of the genetic team. In her eyes, Anya was as close to perfect as a child could be. For that, I loved her. No matter what Sheila did to me, I’d never deny the older woman access to her grandchild.

“Of course, my darling granddaughter is welcome to spend the night. My home is her home. Come on in, sweetheart,” and Sheila stooped to hug my sweaty child. No matter what condition Anya was in, Sheila never skimped on the physical affection. Heck, I’d even seen her holding Anya when my baby reeked of upchuck. As picky as Sheila was about her clothes, she never thought twice about whether Anya might ruin her outfit. She simply opened her arms to my child. I noticed and loved her for that. Yes, loved her. Even if she had no use for me. I found myself in this cosmic holding pattern where I established infinite attraction to folks who didn’t return my affection. Go figure.

Sheila directed Anya toward the cool, vast entryway of her stately home. I could feel the chilled air within, and it had a revitalizing effect on my person.

“Tell Linnea to get you a big glass of her homemade lemonade, okay? I’ll be right there. Are you hungry? I’ll have her make us a salad with tuna. Is that all right, darling? Just leave your things in the foyer for now and get cooled down. The store dropped off a few new pairs of shorts, love. Why don’t you try them on and see how you like them?”

Anya blew me a kiss and sauntered off.

In a wink, the loving grandmother changed to a harridan. “What did you expect? Of course your house is inadequate. That tacky shack you live in is one step up from public housing. I can’t believe my grandchild has to put up with that. The neighborhood is dangerous, and you live in a dump.”

“It’s all I can afford,” I hissed. I was tired of hearing her complain about my house. Actually I lived in a fine little area. Okay, the neighborhood was transitional, but I was near Anya’s school and my work, and the brick bungalow was snug and secure behind its six-foot-high chain-link fence. Not that Sheila cared about my home’s good points.

This quarreling over my housing had become a tired argument. A smarter woman would have bitten her tongue, but I was hot and tired. I rose to the bait. After working all day, finding my electricity out, and facing five more hours on my feet, I responded to the need to justify my meager existence. This really wasn’t about the poor quality of Anya’s housing. It was about Sheila’s ongoing battle to gain total custody of her grandchild.

“If you weren’t so selfish, she could live in comfort and security.” Sheila’s lip curled in an unattractive sneer. I hoped her face would freeze like that. The ugly moue didn’t match her well-groomed eyebrows, perfectly lined eyes, and lightly dusted cheekbones. “You are keeping my granddaughter from a better life.”

This really pushed my buttons. She knew how it felt to lose a child, but she didn’t think I’d mind giving mine away? Huh! “If by a better life, you mean a life without her mother, you’re exactly right. I am keeping my daughter by my side. So get used to it. Every kid deserves a mom. George had one!”

“He certainly did. Too bad he didn’t have a good wife! If he had, my poor baby would be alive today!” This, too, had become well-trod ground. Sheila insisted that her son had been perfect, and his death was the result of my failure as a spouse.

I wasn’t exactly sure how she’d made that causal link, but she had. And by gum, she stuck to it. In her mind, the responsibility for George’s death rested squarely on my shoulders.

I wiped my brow. Sweat streamed down the backs of my legs. My bee stings had shrunk to small angry lumps that I could mainly ignore, but the salt made them complain anew. I’d had enough. Right now I was too hot to quarrel. “Okay, all right. I’m a loser. A waste of oxygen. An idiot. We agree. Feel better? I do appreciate you keeping Anya overnight. Do you want to take her to school tomorrow or should I stop by?”

Temporarily mollified, and believing she’d won because I refused to go round two with her, Sheila calmed down. “I’ll take her.”

With that, she slammed the door in my face.

___

The Monday night croppers had met regularly for months. As promised, Mert was there. Bonnie Gossage brought her baby, and we all took turns holding six-week-old Felix. (What possessed her and Jeremy to name their son that? He’s going to hate his parents when he grows up, and we would all understand why.) Karen Michelletti brought photos from her Hawaiian vacation. Elora Jones was working on a retirement album for Dwayne, her husband. Miriam Finkelstein was finishing a bat mitzvah album for her daughter and asked me when Anya would be ready for hers. (I mumbled, “Soon,” and prayed God would be understanding. I hadn’t forgotten it. I’d just fallen a bit behind.) Vanessa Johnson had posed shots of her son, Jared, and the family car, along with close-ups of his driver’s license and car keys which he’d subsequently lost the next week for rounding the corner to the driveway on two wheels. Reba Katz was working on an album dedicated to the family dog, Hates.

“Hates?” I asked, studying the photo of the sweet-faced Afghan hound with its long, flowing coat.

She nodded. “We adopted this Afghan when he was an adult. Jake, my teenage son, insisted on this particular name. I couldn’t figure out why until we picked up our pet at the vet’s office. The receptionist called back to the grooming area for our dog. She kept announcing, ‘Hates Katz! Hates Katz! We’re ready for Hates Katz!’ ”

We all groaned.

Reba laughed. “A wealthy-looking woman with a Siamese got up and stomped right out. The receptionist ran after her yelling, ‘Wait, wait!’ My son was rolling on the floor in hysterics.”

“Boys will be boys,” said Dodie, but the smile on her lips didn’t match the sadness in her eyes.

What was that all about? I filed it away to contemplate later.

Each woman represented a different socioeconomic stratum. Among us was a rainbow of skin colors. We each had different subjects to scrap and different projects going. But we were there for one reason: to sing a hymn of gratitude to life. Scrapbookers compose paeans to the quotidian. Being around other scrappers is always fun because in the main, scrapbookers are positive people. Even when the going gets rough. I’ve seen scrapbookers work through life’s toughest blows by committing their feelings to paper. Last year when Bethany Gibbon’s mother was dying of breast cancer, she worked diligently to create a legacy album while her mother was still conscious and could contribute. When Rose Mitchell miscarried, she made a special album dedicated to the baby she never had the chance to hold. And Marcia Primm created a loving life album to accompany her Alzheimer’s-impaired mother to a special care facility. “This way the staff can see beyond who she is now and honor her as the person she once was,” Marcia explained to us. I still wipe tears away as I remember her saying that.

I could go on and on. Scrapbooking allows you to step back and see the big picture.

Life is good, and the bad times don’t last. At least, not for long.

Even though crops are a lot of work for me, I always look forward to them. The ladies and I took turns bringing goodies to eat. Since everyone was kind enough to share their favorite recipes, I’d developed quite a repertoire of wonderful baked goods and desserts.

Dodie decided all of our crops would include a technique lesson. This evening I taught the scrappers how to use stick-on lettering and ink to create a negative space page title. The demo went over well to the excitement of scrappers who wondered what on earth they were going to do with page after page of letter stickers in useless colors.

Cleanup went fast. At a little after eleven, I started collecting bits of paper the other croppers had discarded. I always found a way to use the tiniest pieces, even if I just made punch art for embellishments. In fact, Dodie was in the process of making a display of cute tags and cards I’d put together using itsy-bitsy scraps. We discussed adding a Thrifty Scrapbooking class to our current lineup. Our customers would be amazed at the ways I’d found to economize. “I don’t mind them saving money,” said Dodie, “because most of them will turn right around and find a way to spend it on other supplies.”

She had that right.

By the time I headed home, I was exhausted.

The setting sun brought no relief from the high double-digit heat. I lowered the BMW’s top, a maneuver that required brute strength, good balance, and a sense of humor, since this car was too old to have a push-button convertible roof. To drop the top, I stood in the middle of the back seat and gently folded the fabric into neat waves that would fit in the well while holding the well cover up with one hand. I balanced on tiptoes and decided I was one arm short. Whose bright idea was that, eh? A three-handed mechanic?