Pickin Clover (7 page)

Today, Michael understood so well how it felt to have one’s bank account cleaned out. “She doesn’t need antibiotics. The virus will run its course. Just keep her warm and make sure she gets lots of rest. Take her off milk, milk creates mucous. Give her lots of clear liquids, vitamin C, echinacea, garlic.” He rummaged in his desk drawer. “Here are some vitamin C samples, and some echinacea. And here’s a bottle of cough medicine, as well. If she doesn’t improve in the next day or two, bring her back.”

“I will. Thanks a lot, Doctor, for seeing us without an appointment. And for all this stuff.” Jerome stood and carefully put the items in the pocket of his threadbare woolen jacket.

Clover wrapped herself around his leg, glowering up at Michael, who handed her a tiny coloring book and four crayons, one of a number of “prizes” he kept on hand for his youngest patients.

“What do you say, Clover?” Jerome prompted.

“I don’t like green,” she responded instantly, shoving the offending crayon back at Michael, who laughed.

“She’s contrary,” Jerome said, with a shake of his head after he’d finally extracted a grudging thank-you from his daughter. A rueful pride edged his tone.

Michael had noted that Jerome was gentle but firm with Clover, and that her clothing, although worn, was clean, as was Jerome’s.

An idea had been forming in Michael’s head as Jerome reasoned with his daughter. “You mentioned you’re interested in doing odd jobs?”

“Absolutely,” Jerome replied eagerly. “I’m willing to take on any work at all. I can supply references from my former boss and some of the people I’ve worked with.”

Michael explained about Isabelle’s yard, emphasizing that his mother-in-law could be difficult. “The best thing would be for me to take you over there now and introduce you," he decided on the spur of the moment. “You can have a look around and see if you want the job. Then, if she’s agreeable, you could start as soon as Clover’s feeling better. Do you have transportation?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the truck parked outside.” “Here’s the address. I’ll meet you there.” Michael scribbled on a sheet torn from a prescription pad.

It took only moments for him to gather the charts he needed to update, set the security system and lock the front door. On the way to Isabelle’s, he called Polly on the cellular phone and told her his plan.

“She’ll never let you do it, you know.”

Michael could hear the clatter of plates and the running of water. Polly was obviously making dinner. “But I suppose if anyone can persuade her, you can. The only thing I ever did that my mother totally approved of was marrying a doctor.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Michael teased. “She told me once that a dentist would have saved her more money. She said she’s covered by Medicare and anyhow she hardly ever gets sick, but she’s had to spend a bundle on her teeth.”

Polly groaned. “That’s my mother, hardly the most sensitive of women. Dinner’s nearly ready, Michael, so don’t let her lure you into sitting around drinking beer with her, okay?”

“Okay. I’ll be home soon.” He was pulling into Isabelle’s driveway, and he looked, really looked, at the house and yard, seeing it as the neighbors must, and feeling sympathy for them.

Isabelle’s house was in a residential area off Main Street, one of a block of houses built in the early fifties on generous treed lots. The others on the block had fresh paint or siding, neatly trimmed lawns, tidy hedges and flowerbeds. Isabelle’s house stood out like a frowsy drunk at a church social, front lawn weed-choked and decorated with an immense and crumbling cement birdbath. The front porch sagged away from the house, and on it stood an overstuffed chair and two packing boxes, as well as a rolled-up rug that had sat there as long as Michael could remember.

As Michael got out of his car, Jerome stepped out of a battered blue pickup, then unhooked Clover from her child’s seat.

“I peed my pants,” she announced immediately.

Too late, Michael realized that Isabelle probably wasn’t going to appreciate his bringing a kid with wet pants and a virus to visit her, any more than she’d be delighted with the idea of Jerome cleaning up her yard.

The day wasn’t improving with age. He led the way to the front door and rang the bell.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Michael, come on in. Who’s your friend?” Isabelle was a tall woman, five-ten, and she had a loud, commanding voice and a definite presence.

Michael introduced Jerome, and Isabelle nodded, scrutinizing him from behind her stylish glasses.

“How d’you do, young man. I saw you sitting in my driveway and wondered what you were waiting for. Is this girl yours?” She looked down at Clover without smiling, and the girl looked back at her, her expression grim.

“What’s your name, child? What’s that rash all over your neck? Better not be measles or something else I could catch.” When Clover didn’t respond, Isabelle snapped, “Cat’s got your tongue, I see.”

“I peed my pants,” Clover announced in an injured tone.

Isabelle made a disgusted noise. “You’re too big a girl to be doing that, aren’t you?”

“She told me, but there was nowhere to stop,” Jerome said. “Could we please use your bathroom?" He held out a paper bag. “I’ve got dry clothes for her right here.”

Isabelle gestured behind her, along the turquoise hallway. “Go ahead. Bathroom’s right down there.” As soon as Jerome and Clover were gone, Isabelle said, “That rash she’s got contagious?”

Michael assured her it wasn’t.

“Good thing. Come on in the front room and sit down.”

Michael followed her into the claustrophobic living room and sat gingerly on a dingy sofa whose springs had long since retired. It always amazed him that Polly, with her flair for decorating, her artist’s eye, her love for order and beauty, was Isabelle’s daughter.

Isabelle had no decorating sense at all. She never threw anything away. Instead, she constantly added bits of furniture she bought at yard sales, fitting them in wherever there was space, impervious to clashing colors or designs. Cardboard boxes littered every room of the house, stacked against walls, tucked under beds, filled with paperbacks, magazines and various items Isabelle had bought and then couldn’t find an immediate use for.

She sat in a recliner across from Michael and lit a cigarette. The house smelled strongly of stale smoke. Michael had long ago given up suggesting Isabelle quit. “Gotta die of something” had been her cheerful response each time he brought it up.

“I’m going dancing over at the Elks hall in an hour,” she announced. “But we could have a beer first, there’re a couple cold in the fridge.”

“Thanks, but I’m heading home for dinner, I’ll pass on the beer.” Michael was trying to figure out how best to bring up the touchy subject of the yard cleanup, and he figured maybe a little flattery might help.

“Going dancing, huh? You look very pretty, Isabelle.” He knew she was vain, but the compliment was sincere. She was an attractive woman, dramatic in both manner and choice of clothing. She was wearing a soft green dress that flared over her generous hips and showed off good legs in dark hose. She had high-heeled black sandals on her feet, and her short hair was tinted a dramatic shining gold and sprayed into a stiff helmet. At sixty-seven she was strong, healthy and proud of the fact that she didn’t appear her age.

Here again Michael often puzzled over the vagaries of genetics. Mother and daughter couldn’t have been less alike.

“Why’d you bring him over?” She jerked her chin at the bathroom door, where a toilet was flushing noisily.

Michael quickly explained that Clover was his patient, adding that Jerome was a single parent, out of work and needing a job. Now came the tricky part. Mentally, he crossed his fingers. “I thought, if you were agreeable, I’d hire him to clean up the yard for you. See, Isabelle, I heard today that your neighbors are taking up a petition. They’re upset about the piles of rubbish in the back. They’ve reported you to Social Services.”

Michael braced himself for anger and outright rebellion against the neighbors and their petition. Isabelle had a fierce temper, so he was totally taken by surprise when she threw back her head and laughed loudly.

“A petition, huh? Well, good for them. I always figured they had no guts, but people can surprise you. Are they offering to pay for the cleanup?”

Michael grinned. Isabelle was outrageous, and he liked her for it. “No, I’m paying. I have a reputation to uphold and that yard of yours is doing it damage.” He said this in a teasing tone. Isabelle knew very well that he didn’t care at all about reputation, but both also knew that Polly did.

Neither acknowledged that now. Instead, Isabelle laughed again, a great, raucous belly laugh. “Well, if you’re paying, then go ahead and pay. What’s the point of having a rich son-in-law if I never take advantage of him, eh?"

Michael appreciated the irony of her words. His guess was Isabelle had far more in her bank account at this moment than he did.

Jerome and Clover came into the room just then, and Isabelle repeated her offer of a beer. Jerome accepted and she went off to the kitchen. She returned with two cans and a small box of juice, which she handed to Clover.

“So I understand you’re gonna tidy up the yard for me, young fellow.”

“If that’s okay with you, ma’am. I sure will do my best.” Jerome hesitated and then added, “Would you mind if I brought Clover with me? I don’t have anyone to leave her with. She won’t be any trouble, will you, honey?”

Clover shook her head and sucked loudly on her drink. Michael stiffened and held his breath; Jerome’s request could ruin the entire plan. Polly insisted that Isabelle didn’t like kids, that she was never a satisfactory grandmother to Susannah.

But once again, Isabelle was agreeable. “Fine by me. Bring her along, just so she isn’t running in and out the house every minute.”

Michael could hardly believe it had been so easy.

When he told Polly the good news twenty minutes later, she was pleased but skeptical.

“I can’t believe she gave in just like that. What does this Jerome guy look like?”

“Big, healthy, about thirty-five. Strong muscles, good physique. Thick blond hair, tanned skin. Handsome.”

"That’s what did it,” Polly declared. "Mom has a weakness for good-looking men. When’s he starting?”

"Probably day after tomorrow. Clover should be better by then.”

“Clover? Who’d name a poor unsuspecting child ‘Clover’?”

“Her mother, probably. She walked out on them a couple weeks ago, Jerome told me.” Polly shook her head but didn’t comment.

Michael was pouring them each a glass of wine. The table looked lovely. Polly had set it with her usual eye for color, selecting a plain buttery-yellow cloth with huge patterned blue-and-yellow napkins that she’d sewn. The centerpiece was a low pottery bowl planted with blooming hyacinths in plum and purple and a rich, deep violet that matched the starkly simple dinnerware.

“Have I seen these plates before?” Michael picked one up to admire it, surprised at its weight.

"I just got them yesterday. I had them special ordered from Italy. Each is slightly different because the set is handmade. See the gradations in the color?”

Michael stared at the plate and knew this was the precise moment to tell Polly such extravagances had to end. At least three other full sets of china sat in the tall cupboards lining one entire dining-room wall, china that was seldom used. They rarely entertained, and this was the first dinner the two of than had shared in more than a week.

“They’re exquisite, don’t you think?” Polly caressed the smooth surface of a plate. “Beautiful things like these give me such pleasure.”

Michael looked at her, taking in the delicate lines of her lovely face, which her new haircut emphasized; her smile, so poignant a contrast to the sad vulnerability in her eyes, and he just couldn’t say what needed to be said—that they were on the verge of bankruptcy, that she really should pack these blue dishes up and return them to the store because there was a real possibility that he couldn’t pay the bill when it came in.

Instead, he sipped his wine, took a seat and, without tasting anything, ate the rich vegetable stew, the fresh crusty bread, the delicate endive salad his wife had prepared.

They sat across from each other at the heavy oak dining table, an Italian tenor’s rich, evocative voice flowing from the sound system. The tastefully decorated room filled with shadows as darkness fell outside the wide windows.

Polly had grouped candles around the bowl holding the hyacinths and she lit them now. She was wearing a long blue lacy sweater over dark tights, and with the new short hairstyle, she looked like a young girl in the candlelight, a desirable girl he should scoop up in his arms and passionately love. But the weight of the house settled around him like a stone; the awful emptiness of the child’s bedroom at the top of the curving stairway haunted him, the missing place setting on his right, where Susannah had always sat, filled him with pain. She used to wriggle in her chair, her electric energy filling up the room. She’d often spilled her milk on the tablecloth and his trousers, and she’d once laughed so hard and long at one of his silly jokes that she’d choked and vomited her dinner all over the cloth. She’d sometimes rested her small foot on his thigh under the table. And she’d giggled, with that special hitch in her voice, when he teased her.