Pickin Clover (19 page)

The words were painful. He pulled up the blanket. “Polly, can we just go to sleep? It’s been a long day, and I’m wiped out.”

“Sure.” Her anger was evident in her tone. “Sure, we can go to sleep. Anything at all to avoid talking to me, right, Michael? You can spend an hour telling a story to a kid, but when it comes to having a serious discussion with your wife, you’re too tired.”

He didn’t answer. He forced his breathing to mimic sleep. After a long, interminable time, when he could tell by her rhythmic breathing and the slight trembling of her limbs that she was asleep, he crept out of bed and made his way downstairs to his office.

He always had patient files to update, government forms to fill out, paperwork that both numbed his brain and demanded his attention. Through the small hours he worked, and just before dawn, he stretched out on the leather couch and fell instantly into exhausted sleep.

Polly awoke slowly. Gray morning light filtered through the draperies. It was raining outside; she could hear the steady patter of water hitting the glass panes of the window. Michael was gone, but she suddenly had the definite feeling that she wasn’t alone. She turned over quickly and propped herself on an elbow.

Clover stood at the side of the bed, staring at her. How long had she been there? Polly stared back for a moment, feeling as if her privacy had been invaded. Then she tried for a smile and cleared her throat.

“Good morning, Clover.”

“It’s time to get up.”

The words were accusatory, and for some reason they made Polly feel guilty. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

She squinted at the clock and yawned. “It’s only ten past eight. That’s not exactly the middle of the afternoon, you know.”

Clover didn’t respond. She was already dressed, in the same shorts and top she’d worn the day before. She looked tousled and unwashed.

“I’m hungry. Where’s Doctor gone?”

Good question. “He’s probably at work. He has to go and make all the sick people better.” And get away from his wife.

“Sick people like my daddy?”

“Yup.” She swung her legs out of bed, and Clover followed as she headed for the bathroom.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” Polly shut the door firmly behind her. When she emerged a few moments later, Clover was sitting on the floor, by the door, waiting.

“We should have a shower before breakfast,” Polly said determinedly.

“Both together?” Clover immediately took off her shorts and top. She’d forgotten to put on panties, Polly noticed, and she’d pulled on her shorts backward. She was still a baby in so many ways.

“I guess so. We’re both girls.” It was the most efficient way to do things. Polly turned on the shower and soaped them both down, then shampooed her head and Clover’s. Afterward, she used dusting powder and cologne liberally on Clover as well as herself. The little girl was fascinated with Polly’s cosmetics, and Polly let her dab on moisturizer and lip-gloss. She used conditioner and volumizer on both their heads, deciding on impulse to take Clover to Louie and see what he could do with her hair. It desperately needed cutting. The sparse bangs hung in her eyes; the rest was too short to braid or pull into a ponytail. She also had to drop by Jerome’s apartment to pick up Clover’s things, Polly remembered.

Those errands might take up the morning. Clover napped so they’d have to be home by noon. Somehow, someway, she’d have to make it through the day, Polly thought. There were weeks of this ahead, she reminded herself, and her heart sank. She felt trapped.

During the past months she’d never thought of herself as free. She’d viewed her days as stretches of time to put in, hours to fill with shopping, lunches, hairdressers and masseurs. Now that she had to build her days around this child, Polly understood for the first time how independent she’d been. She’d had freedom, and never once appreciated it.

“Okay, kid, let’s go down and have breakfast.”

Clover looked clean, if not pretty, in fresh pink shorts and T-shirt, and she trotted along at Polly’s side cheerfully enough. At least the day had started off fairly well. That was a hopeful sign.

In the kitchen, Polly made coffee, poured two glasses of orange juice, set out cold cereal and milk.

“I don’t like orange juice,” Clover announced, pushing away the glass and scowling. “I don’t like this cereal. I only like Sugar Pops.”

“Want some toast, instead?”

Clover shook her head. “Don’t like toast. I want bacon’n’eggs.”

“We don’t eat bacon and eggs. How about oatmeal?”

“Don’t like oatmeal.” Clover thrust out her bottom lip ominously.

“Then what the heck are you going to eat for breakfast?” All the fragile camaraderie of bathing and doing makeup disappeared in an instant, and Polly was right back where she’d been the day before, feeling resentment and animosity toward this four-year-old child and disliking herself for it.

Clover sullenly agreed to peanut butter on plain untoasted bread, and much against her better judgment, Polly marked Sugar Pops on a grocery list.

She knew it was silly, but Clover’s fussy eating habits got under her skin. Susannah had been the easiest child in the world when it came to food, Polly recalled. After her illness was diagnosed, a macrobiotic practitioner had suggested a strict diet of grains, steamed vegetables and rice. Susannah had adopted it wholeheartedly, never complaining.

Sipping her coffee, Polly called and managed to wheedle an appointment with Louie, who told her that he usually didn’t “do” children but would bend his rule just this once to accommodate her; it just so happened he’d had a ten o’clock cancellation.

It was already nine-thirty. Polly rushed them out and over to the salon, only to find that Clover was terrified of scissors. She took one look at Louie holding the tools of his trade and began screaming.

No amount of reasoning or even bribery worked. When Polly tried to lift her into the chair, Clover stiffened and kicked. Everyone stopped and stared.

Louie moved well out of range, rolled his eyes and looked disgusted.

Polly finally slunk out of the salon with Clover clutching her pant leg. Every eye in the place was on them. Polly had an irresistible urge to turn and scream, “She’s not mine, I’m only baby-sitting.”

She didn’t. She hurried them into the car, took deep, calming breaths and drove to Jerome’s apartment, a two-bedroom walk up in a run-down building in Richmond.

“There’s my house,” Clover crowed as they drove up. Polly unlocked the outside door and Clover raced in ahead of her, the trauma of the aborted haircut forgotten. She danced up the stairs and waited impatiently as Polly opened the apartment door.

Clearly, Jerome did his best to keep the place clean, but clearly, too, money was in short supply. The furniture was old, well worn and mismatched. An antiquated television stood in one comer. The stove and battered fridge looked ancient. A toaster sat on the kitchen counter, but there was no microwave, blender, food processor or juicer, and certainly no dishwasher.

Two bikes leaned against a wall, an adult’s and a child’s with training wheels.

“That’s my bike. I ride with my daddy. This is my bedroom,” Clover announced with great pride, ushering Polly in and climbing up on the narrow bed. The pink quilt was thin from many washings, but plenty of toys lay scattered around, many of them homemade. Clover had several dolls, a set of building blocks and a unique dollhouse that Polly admired.

“My daddy made it for me.” Clover snatched a grubby toy rabbit off the bed and held it lovingly to her chest.

“It’s beautiful. And that’s Wilbur, huh? Let’s gather up your clothes and whatever toys you want, and take them to our house, okay?” Polly had brought a roomy sports bag and several boxes, but the few garments in the closet and the sparse collection of underwear, pajamas and socks left plenty of room.

“Shall we take your dolls?”

Clover didn’t answer, so Polly added the dolls to the bag anyway.

“How about your dollhouse, Clover?”

Clover was now sitting on her bed, clutching Wilbur. She shook her head.

“Okay, then what else would you like to bring?”

No answer. Polly added toys at random and zipped the bag, then carried it to the doorway. Clover didn’t move.

“Come on, Clover, we have to go now. If there’s anything else you want we’ll take it. Your bike, maybe?”

Clover shook her head again, scuttling back on the bed so that her back was against the wall.

Polly went to the door and waited. “Clover, c’mon, now.” A foreboding came over her. “We have to go.”

No answer. Polly blew a breath out from between her teeth, dropped the sports bag and went back into the bedroom.

Clover sat exactly where she’d left her, back against the wall, rabbit clutched to her chest.

“Clover, you can’t stay here. There’s no one to take care of you.” Polly reached out to pick her up, and Clover bit her on the thumb. Her sharp teeth pierced the skin. Polly shrieked with pain and jerked back, rubbing her hand. Blood popped out of the bite marks.

“Ow-ww, damn it all, biting is not allowed.”

Polly realized she was shrieking. Her thumb hurt like fury. What she wanted to do was smack Clover, but she made a huge effort to control herself. She lowered her voice. “You really hurt me, Clover Fox. And hurting people is not allowed. Now, get off that bed and come with me. You can’t stay here, you know that.”

But that was exactly what Clover intended to do. She didn’t move. Chin set, eyes slitted, she glared up at Polly.

Polly glared right back. What on earth, she wondered, was she going to do with this impossible child?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Polly finally reached out and and lifted Clover, holding her tight against her and being careful to face the child away from her to make sure that biting wasn’t easy.

Clover kicked and thrashed and began screaming. The back of her head caught Polly on the cheekbone, and for a moment she saw stars. She fumbled for the doorknob, got the door open and began to struggle her way down the steps.

Clover went right on screaming and squirming, and an elderly woman coming up the stairs needed to back against the wall to avoid being kicked. She looked up at the open door of Jerome’s apartment and stared at Polly suspiciously.

“That’s Clover Fox, isn’t it?” She had to holler to be heard over Clover’s screams. “Who are you? Where are you taking her? Where’s Jerome?”

Polly, red-faced, mortified, out of breath and out of patience, had no desire or energy to hold a conversation.

She jockeyed past the woman, stumbled down the final steps and out to the car, wrestled kicking child and keys and car door and finally dumped Clover inside on the front passenger seat.

As soon as Clover was in the car, she stopped fighting. She bent forward and rested her forehead on her skinny knees, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Sweating, trembling, feeling as if she’d just been wrestling a lion cub, Polly leaned against the side of the car and tried to figure out how to get the sports bag she’d dropped in the apartment. Could she leave Clover alone in the car for the scant four minutes it would take to retrieve it and lock the apartment door?

She stood undecided, wishing with all her heart she’d never laid eyes on Clover Fox. Her thumb still stung, her cheekbone throbbed and felt as if it was swelling and Clover’s shoes had put dirt marks all over her clean khaki pants. She undoubtedly had bruises on her thighs, as well.

Slowly Polly became aware of a siren approaching, and she jumped back when a police car squealed to a stop a scant four feet from her car.

The R.C.M.P. officer was out of the car and standing beside Polly almost before the wheels had stopped turning. Simultaneously, the door of the apartment building opened and the woman Polly had passed on the stairs stood there, hands on her hips.

“Officer, she’s kidnapping that little girl,” she screeched. “I know Jerome, I’m his landlady. That’s his little girl. His wife ain’t been around awhile but this woman sure ain’t her.”

The confusion took forty long, humiliating minutes to sort out. The officer made calls to the hospital to confirm that Jerome was a patient and calls to Michael’s office to confirm that Polly was who her driver’s license said she was.

Apparently Michael was at the hospital delivering a baby, but Valerie must have been convincing, because finally the policeman apologized and drove off.

While she was under suspicion of kidnapping, Polly decided categorically that as soon as she was out of sight of the law, she was dropping Clover off at Social Services. The idea lost appeal, however, when she thought about the explanations she’d have to make, the upset it would cause Jerome.

Instead, she drove straight home, exchanging murderous looks with Clover at every stoplight.

At home, Clover meekly followed Polly inside, ate without protest the soup and sandwich set in front of her and, clutching her rabbit, marched off to take a nap without being told.

Polly sank into a chair and held a bag of frozen peas to her aching cheekbone. The phone rang, but she let the machine take it. She listened to Michael’s voice apologizing for not being available when the police phoned and urging her to call him as soon as she got home.