Promises to Keep (17 page)

“What, Roz? What’d she say?”

“Mom said she didn’t want to love anyone anymore. She said something like, ‘God knows, if I could turn my heart to stone, I would. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t have to feel anything.’ ”

Mara looked at me hard, and I could read the question in her eyes:
What exactly did your daddy do to your mama that she would talk like that?

I looked away. I didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it. That was the past, and things were going to change. Daddy was going to change. He’d promised.

Mara whispered, “So do you think your mom will end up marrying this guy?”

With a heavy sigh I said, “I have to make sure she doesn’t.”

Mara nodded knowingly. We both looked out the living room window, expecting to see the dreaded object of our conversation coming up the walk at any moment.

“How come he’s as old as he is and not married yet?” Mara asked.

“Tillie told me he was married once, but his wife left him.”

“Oh yeah? Why’d she leave him?”

I shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Did they have any kids?”

“No. I don’t think he likes kids very much.”

“Oh!” Mara’s eyes widened as she smiled at that.

The clock on the mantel chimed six times, and as usual, Mr. Barrows appeared right on time. “Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Here he comes now.”

In another moment my mother’s suitor was at the door. I let him in and ushered him in to the living room.

“Mom’s running behind,” I explained, “because she had to work late at the store. She told me and Mara to keep you entertained until she’s ready.”

“Oh?” He reluctantly removed his hat and coat and draped them across the back of the easy chair by the window. Sitting down, he picked up the day-old paper from the footstool and snapped it open. “That won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly – ”

Mara jumped up from the couch and said, “Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Barrows? Some water, soda, hot tea?”

“Um, well – ”

“This is my best friend, Mara Nightingale,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I guess you haven’t been here in a while, because you haven’t met her yet, even though she’s been with us all week.”

Mr. Barrows turned his magnified gray eyes upon Mara and nodded. “How do you do?”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Mara said politely.

“As for something to drink, no thank you. I’m fine.” He turned to the paper again. “I’ll just – ”

“Mrs. Anthony was kind enough to let me stay here while my mama and daddy went to Detroit to visit my sister and her new baby,” Mara said. She sat back down, settling herself comfortably on the couch. She patted the cushion beside her, and I sat.

Without raising his chin Mr. Barrows peered at Mara over the rim of his glasses. “I see,” he said. “Well, that was very nice.”

“Yes, it was. And I’m obliged. Except for the fact that I could hardly sleep a wink all week.”

Tom Barrows waited a fraction of a second before asking, “And why is that, Martha?”

“It’s Mara. M-A-R-A. But that’s okay. It’s an unusual name, I know, and a lot of people don’t get it at first. They call me Martha or Marla or Marta or even Dora, if you can imagine that. Dora doesn’t even sound anything like Mara!”

“Uh-huh.” The gray eyes dropped to the paper again.

“Like I said,” Mara went on, “it’s hard to sleep around here. I don’t know how it is Roz doesn’t wake up, what with all the noise.” She interrupted herself with an enormous yawn, as though to prove her point.

“All the noise?” Tom Barrows asked. He turned a page of the newspaper and folded it in quarters.

Lowering her voice, Mara leaned forward and said, “It’s Mrs. Anthony. I never heard anyone snore so bad. It’s enough to make the whole house shake. Isn’t it, Roz?”

She looked at me. Tongue-tied by her outright lie, I managed only to nod my head.

“It’s enough to raise the dead,” Mara concluded.

Tom Barrows stared at the two of us without saying a word. He cleared his throat before going back to the paper.

After a moment of silence Mara exclaimed, “And her cooking!”

The eyes behind the glasses reluctantly rolled up again.

“Please don’t tell her I said so, Mr. Barrows, but I liked to die of starvation on the nights Mrs. Anthony cooked. Thank heavens Tillie was here to cook the other nights, or I’d be practically skin and bones. I mean, she’s a nice lady and all, Mrs. Anthony, but she’s a disaster in the kitchen.”

Tom Barrows shifted his gaze to me. Receiving neither confirmation nor denial, he turned back to Mara once again.

“Mrs. Anthony is a wonderful cook, Martha,” he said. “I’ve been here for dinner numerous times.”

“Oh, but did you actually see her cook the meal, Mr. Barrows? Because it might just be that Tillie cooked it for her before you came.”

Tom Barrows hesitated a moment before saying, “Well, I’m sure it doesn’t matter. One can always learn to cook. It isn’t difficult to follow a recipe.”

“Yeah, you got a point. I just hope Mrs. Anthony learns before all those kids come along.”

“All those kids?”

“Yeah, you know. All those kids she wants. She told me it’s her dream to have a dozen children. That Mrs. Anthony, she loves children, you know.”

The now distressed eyes turned back to me, beseechingly. I merely shrugged.

“Well, she never mentioned any such thing to me, Martha,” he said. “In fact, I was under the impression she was – ” he paused a moment as Mara and I looked at him intently – “well, you know, finished with all that business.”

I jumped as Mara laughed loudly just inches from my ear. “Finished?” she said. “Why, she’s just getting started. She – ”

“Who’s just getting started with what?” Mom asked as she stepped into the living room.

Tom Barrows jumped up like a rocket from the chair and helped Mom on with her coat. “I’m glad you’re here, Janis . . .”

“Sorry I’m late, Tom. I hope the girls were keeping you company.”

He glanced helplessly at us. “Oh yes. Yes. Well, shall we go?”

In another moment, after Mom’s parting instructions about minding Tillie and helping out with Valerie, they were on their way. Mara and I shut the door behind them and leaned against it heavily, exploding into laughter.

“I can’t believe you said all those things, Mara!” I cried.

“The good news is,” Mara said, “I think he believed me.”

We clasped pinkies and sank to the floor, sighing happily.

chapter
21

At school on Monday morning I found a note from Daddy in my desk.

Dear Roz,
   There is a small café a few blocks from the library called Hot Diggity Dog. It’s on Second Street, beside the Woolworth’s. Meet me there today at 4:00 if you can.
   I love you, Little Rose.
                                                    Dad

My breath left me, and my hands trembled as I smoothed the piece of paper on my desk with an open palm. My eyes darted around the room, wondering if anyone could possibly know, just by looking at me, that this morning was no ordinary morning, this piece of paper no ordinary piece of paper. None of the kids paid any attention to me as they hung up their jackets and got settled at their desks. But when my gaze fell upon Miss Fremont, I shivered. She was smiling at me knowingly, as though she shared my secret. She couldn’t possibly know about Daddy, I told myself. I quickly dropped my eyes, folded up the note, and slipped it into the pocket of my skirt.

All morning I could hardly concentrate on what was happening in the classroom. When Miss Fremont called on me to answer a question, my mind was so far away I didn’t hear. Normally when someone drifted off, Miss Fremont would rap on their desk with a ruler, but she didn’t do that to me. Not today. She simply laid a hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, calling me back from the places Daddy’s note had taken me. I looked up at her questioningly, but again she only smiled.

Finally, in midafternoon, I was able to spill my secret to the one person who would understand. Recess was held outside in spite of the autumn chill, but Mara and I managed to find a small stretch of sun-baked bricks along an outer wall of the school. There, in our secluded spot, I pulled the note from my pocket and showed it to Mara.

She took it into her mittened hands and read it. I watched her eyes move slowly over the scribbled words, and when she lifted them to me, they were filled with doubt. “Are you going?” she asked.

“Of course I’m going. Why wouldn’t I?”

Mara shrugged. “I don’t know, Roz. I’ve been thinking . . .”

“About what?”

“About your dad. I mean, there must have been a good reason your mom left him.”

I snatched the note out of her hand. “He’s going to change. He promised.”

“Yeah but . . .” She didn’t finish. She looked away.

“We made a deal,” I said.

“I know.”

“We’re going to get our daddies back, and nothing’s going to stop us.”

“I know, Roz. But my father, he – ”

“He what?”

“He loved my mother.”

“My father loves my mother too. He told me so.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “Just be careful, Roz.”

Her words sent a ripple of fear through the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know. Just . . . if he wants you to go somewhere with him, don’t go. Just stay inside the restaurant, is all. You know, where people can see you.”

I didn’t like what she was saying, and I didn’t like feeling afraid. It made me angry. “I thought you’d be happy for me, Mara.”

“I am, Roz. Really I am.” She tried to smile, but the forced upturn of her mouth didn’t fool me for a minute.

She took off her mitten and held up her pinkie. I hesitated a moment, then took off my own mitten and clasped her finger with mine. Still, not wanting to see the warning there flashing like neon lights, I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

After the final bell Mara took the school bus to the public library with me. Standing outside on the sidewalk, she pointed me in the right direction and told me to look for the dancing hot dog. From the library I walked on to the Hot Diggity Dog Café alone, clutching my schoolbooks against my chest as a shield against the cold wind. But I shivered anyway – not just from the cold, but from anxiety over seeing Daddy, and from the fact that I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to do.

I’d lied to Tillie when I called home from the office at school. “I need to go to the library to do homework with Mara this afternoon,” I’d said.

“Why don’t you girls come to the house and do your homework here?” she suggested. “I’ve just pulled a fresh loaf of banana bread out of the oven.”

“Thanks, Tillie, but we need to use some reference books that we can’t bring home.”

“Do you need me to talk to the secretary, give her permission for you to get off at the library?”

“No. Mom’s already given permission for me to get off there anytime I want to. She said I just had to let you know when I’m doing it.”

“What about Mara? Does her mother know where she is, or should I call Mrs. Nightingale and let her know?”

“No, her mother knows already. She’s allowed to go to the library whenever she wants to.”

“All right, then. Afterward, walk on over to Marie’s, and you can get a ride home with your mother. It’s too cold to be walking around very much out there.”

The small trail of lies behind me and the unknown path ahead left me feeling sick. A small ache began to throb against my brow as I bent against the wind, and it seemed to beat in time to the echo of Mara’s warning:
“Be careful, Roz. Be careful, Roz.”

I found the Hot Diggity Dog Café just as Mara said I would, with its brightly painted dancing hot dog winking down at me from the plate-glass window. He was a friendly little guy, his smile encouraging people to come on in and sit awhile. But when I pulled open the heavy glass door, I found the place to be just another cheap diner, with barely enough room for a counter, stools on one side, and a row of booths on the other. No one was there except for a waitress wiping circles with a rag on the countertop. She glanced up at me, snapped her gum, looked back down.

I took a moment to catch my breath and revel in the warm air rising from a floor grate by the door. My heart beat wildly and my knees were weak, and for one brief moment I considered backing out the door and running, but curiosity pushed me forward. If Daddy was there, he’d be in the far corner booth drinking strong black coffee and smoking a Marlboro cigarette. How often I had seen him doing that very thing back home, sitting at our kitchen table in Minneapolis, nursing a steaming mug at the end of a long day, a cigarette reducing itself to ash between the thick and callused fingers of his right hand.

I moved forward, peering into every empty booth along the wall until finally, as I suspected, I found him in the last one. He sat there with his back to the door, hunched over the predicted cup of coffee, an ashtray on the table just beyond his right hand. It was full of cigarette butts, crisscrossed and crushed, like a pile of fallen soldiers after battle. One lighted cigarette lay in the crevice of the ashtray, wispy smoke rising as it gave up the ghost. Daddy must have gone through a whole pack just waiting for me to arrive.