The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (41 page)

The temperature in Avalon is dropping. Halloween is just around the corner, scarecrows and pumpkins adorning porches, wispy tissue paper ghosts gracing windows and doorways.

Frances is at her sewing machine, two half-sewn costumes on the ironing board, Mei Ling’s growing quilt hanging on the door to the pantry. Nick refused a homemade costume this year, saying he was going to go as a skateboarder instead. T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, knit hat, skateboard, done. Frances tried not to look disappointed, but she can’t help it. She’s made a costume for him every year since his birth.

“Mom,” he says as she ticks off possible costumes. Pirate, skeleton, wizard. “That’s kid stuff.”

Well, he’s a kid, isn’t he? Frances is perplexed by her growing boy, by her inability to anticipate his every need. She thought she was good at this. It was easier when he was little, and she’s not having the same problem with Brady or Noah. But Nick is growing from boy to young man and Frances isn’t sure what to do.

“I’m sorry,” she says as soon as Hannah answers the phone. She explains her dilemma. “I remember you said that Jamie is from a family of boys, and I thought I could get some tips. I’m really feeling lost here.”

“I’m not sure there’s much I can do to help,” Hannah admits. “But I’d be happy to introduce you to Sandra Linde, Jamie’s mother. She’s wonderful, and you have a lot in common.”

Sandra invites them over for coffee. As she and Hannah walk up to Sandra Linde’s house, Frances sees the battered basketball hoop but none of the odds and ends of boyhood that are so easily found at her house. Tricycles littering the lawn; the odd assortment of rubber balls, baseballs, soccer balls; a forgotten toy; dried out paint cups; even Brady’s shoes. There’s all the junk her boys have picked up throughout their day, too. A forgotten frog in a glass jar, makeshift swords, a bucket full of rocks. She knows Sandra’s boys are much older, but for some reason Frances figured there would be evidence of their boyness still.

When Sandra answers the door and invites them in, Frances sees it. Or, rather, smells it. Stinky shoes and socks, dirty laundry piled high. Sandra keeps a neat house, much more so than Frances, but it reeks of boy, and Frances loves it.

“Sorry,” Sandra apologizes. She picks up a damp towel from the floor and hollers, “Peter, get out here and hang this up!”

A sixteen-year-old boy with damp hair lopes out of his room, and Frances is struck by how tall he is. She can’t imagine any of her boys becoming … this.

“My youngest,” Sandra says proudly, and then she points to pictures of Jamie, her oldest, and her middle twins, Casey and Bailey, who are in college in Vermont. There are sports trophies, sports equipment, and textbooks everywhere. It’s like the big version of her home.

The front door opens again and Jamie walks in, still wearing his UPS uniform.

“Hi, Mom,” Jamie says, giving Sandra a kiss on the cheek before doing the same to Hannah. He slips an arm around Hannah’s waist. “I heard there was a party and thought I’d come over.”

Sandra grins and Frances can tell she’s delighted to have him home. She would be, too. Hannah and Jamie wander into the kitchen while Sandra and Frances settle in the living room.

“Hannah told me your family is growing,” Sandra says as they sit down. “How exciting!”

“Thank you,” Frances says, beaming. “There’s still so much to be done, but I’m ready. We all are.”

“A girl,” Sandra sighs wistfully. “That used to be my dream—one boy and one girl. But two was our magic number, and then when we had the twins our entire parenting strategy changed. We switched from man-to-man to zone defense. At that point we figured, what the heck, we’re already outnumbered, so then we had Peter.” She laughs.

Frances wonders when she’ll be able to talk about her children and parenting with the same ease as Sandra Linde. Sandra looks connected with her boys, something Frances thought she was as well.

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” she says. “With Mei Ling on the way, I thought I had everything under control with the boys. But my eight-year-old, Nick, has suddenly become this reticent, reluctant kid. It’s harder to get him to do things with us, and he seems embarrassed by me already. He even did that eyeball roll the other day when I told him to zip up his sweater hoodie. Isn’t it a little early for that?”

Sandra sighs. “Casey was like that,” she remembers. “He wouldn’t let me walk him into the classroom like his brothers did. He didn’t want me cramping his style.”

That sounds just like her son, and Frances feels stung by the comment. “But how can I cramp his style?” she asks. “Nick is only eight!”

Sandra laughs. “I don’t think age has anything to do with it,” she says. “It’s their personalities. They come into the world wired a certain way. We can influence it, certainly, but they are who they are.” She lifts her chin to point down the hallway. “Peter is my easiest kid. Agreeable, not argumentative. You can tell him to do something and he’ll do it. But he also has a knack for getting into trouble. If there’s something going down, Peter is never far away.”

Frances thinks about the boy she met minutes ago. “Really?”

“Peter, come here!” Frances calls. A second later Peter is there, a bag of chips in hand.

“Hey, there he is,” Jamie says as he and Hannah walk back into
the living room. “The conquering hero!” Jamie musses his brother’s hair and Peter tries to duck out of the way.

“Quit it,” Peter says, but he’s grinning.

“They won another game,” Sandra tells her. “Peter’s on the football team. They’re on a winning streak, the first time in six years. It’s a big deal.”

Frances nods wordlessly, still taking in these grown-up versions of her sons. She can’t imagine them towering over her but she knows it’s inevitable—Reed is 6’2” and the boys are already in the hundredth percentile for their height.

“Hey, no food in your room,” Sandra reminds Peter, grabbing the bag of chips. “You know better.”

“Aw. But Jamie gets to eat in his room.”

“Jamie has his own apartment and he’s an adult. As long as you’re under my roof, all food stays in the kitchen.” Sandra whispers to Frances. “Jamie’s my neat one. Always made his bed, folded his own laundry, set the table. Very responsible.”

“I’m responsible,” Peter mumbles, overhearing them.

“Yeah, responsible for setting off two fire alarms in school last month,” Jamie reminds him.

“But that wasn’t me,” his brother protests.

Sandra ignores him. “He’s still grounded,” she tells Frances. “I forgot to tell you about that part. This is where you hope you raised them right at the end of the day.”

“I said I didn’t do it,” Peter says again.

“Let me guess—was it Spit Parker?” Jamie snorts. He tells Hannah and Frances, “Spit Parker is the quarterback. A legend, larger than life. He can’t do wrong since he’s taking the team to championships. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

Peter mumbles something unintelligible. Frances catches the words, “not fair,” somewhere in the mix.

“Look, Peter,” Sandra says, turning her attention to her youngest son. Her voice is stern. “I know you said it wasn’t you. But you knew who did it and that makes you an accomplice. I know it seems like a
harmless prank, but people panic in situations like that. Someone could get hurt and I know you wouldn’t want that.”

Peter hangs his head.

“I know you want to be loyal to Spit, but being a good friend isn’t about hiding the truth. It’s about helping him make better decisions, not enabling poor ones. Do you know what I’m saying?”

A nod.

Frances wishes she could take notes, get a transcript of what’s transpiring. She likes to think her boys will never misbehave, will never get into trouble, but they already misbehave, already get into trouble. She may as well learn how to deal with it.

“You’re a good boy, Peter, but that doesn’t mean your father and I aren’t going to call you on it when you do something wrong, or allow somebody else to do something wrong. I don’t ever want you to look back on something and feel regret. Now go,” Sandra says, waving them all away. “I want to finish enjoying my chat with Mrs. Latham before it’s time to put dinner on the table.”

Nobody moves. Peter is looking edgy, clearly unhappy, and Jamie has a frown on his face.

“Pete, what is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Peter mumbles, but he also doesn’t move to leave.

“I’ll tackle it out of you if I have to,” Jamie says. He makes a threatening move toward his brother and Peter jumps back.

“Okay, okay!” Peter’s nervous now, and both Jamie and Sandra have impatient looks on their faces. Clearly this is not an uncommon occurrence. Frances would be concerned if she weren’t so fascinated at the same time.

Peter takes a deep breath. “Promise me you won’t get mad.”

“Peter.”
Sandra Linde does not look happy, her mouth turning into an angry frown. “Do
not
make me call your father.”

“Fine.” Peter sighs, dropping onto the couch. “I have something to tell you.”

This is it, the last of it. All of Isabel’s boxes have finally been sorted, a large pile put aside for Ava and Max, an even larger pile for Goodwill and a few local churches. She’s already sent off a box to Lillian Kidd, Bill’s mother, with a long note that took her most of the night to write.

Outside of the kitchen and master bedroom, Isabel’s own things occupy a small corner of the garage. She still has quite a few things but she knows what they are, has deliberately chosen what to keep and what to give away. She can’t believe how light she feels, how hopeful. She no longer feels mired in all the stuff that was keeping her anchored here, all the unknown quantities that felt heavy and mysterious. Everything is in its proper place at last.

Dan and Nina are coming again this week, and Isabel is ready for them. The house is clean, the furniture comfortable and spare, every mirror and glass sparkling and clear. But it’s the porch that Isabel is most excited about. Ian Braemer put the final coat on a week ago and it’s perfect. The house finally looks—and feels—complete.

Isabel is about to head out the door for the scrapbooking meeting when her phone rings. She’s late as it is and debates letting the machine pick it up, but decides to answer it.

“Isabel?” It’s a man’s voice, shaky and uncertain. “It’s Buddy McGuire, Eula’s husband.”

“Oh, hey, Buddy,” Isabel says. “What’s up?”

“Eula and I are here at the hospital in Freeport. Bettie had a fall. She has a broken wrist, but she’s otherwise okay.”

Isabel grips the phone. “I’ll be right there.”

“She’s about to go into surgery and then the doc says she’ll be out for a while. We’ll be able to bring her home later tonight, so I don’t think you need to come out. I thought that maybe you could let the folks know at the scrapbooking meeting that she won’t be there.” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Eula is pretty upset. She and Bettie were having an argument and then Bettie turned to leave, and fell.”

“An argument? About what?”

“Bettie was accusing Eula of poisoning her food and holding her
prisoner. She grabbed Eula’s car keys, and Eula tried to stop her from leaving. That’s when she fell.”

“Oh, Buddy.” Isabel can picture how it went down. “I’m so sorry. I’m glad that Eula didn’t let her get in the car, though. Dr. Richard says she can’t be driving anymore.”

“Isabel, I don’t know if we can do this anymore. Eula and Bettie are good friends, but this isn’t the Bettie we know. She forgets why she’s with us half the time. We aren’t able to get anything done during the day, and nights are becoming rough, too. We’re not getting much sleep because she wanders and if I lock the doors, she gets upset.”

Isabel doesn’t know what to say but she can imagine their difficulty in wrangling with Bettie. “I’ll talk to Dr. Richard, we’ll figure it out,” she promises.

But this doesn’t seem to be enough. “Eula and I are in our mid-seventies,” Buddy continues. “We love Bettie but we’re out of our league here. I’m sorry to ask this, but is there someone else she can stay with?”

“I’ll put it out to the group tonight,” Isabel says. “And she can stay with me until we make other arrangements.”

“Okay.” Buddy sounds relieved, but guilty, too. Isabel can only imagine how exhausted he must be. He and Eula were the first people to step up and open their home to Bettie after the fire. No one had even given Bettie’s dementia a second thought, Isabel included. It had only been about finding a safe place for Bettie to stay and to be among friends.

Isabel thanks him and says goodbye. She stares at her car keys, wondering what she should do. People were expecting to see Bettie tonight, and Isabel knows Society members have spread the word in the community about Bettie having lost everything in the fire. They’re expecting a good turnout and Isabel can’t cancel the meeting.

It’s a short drive to the tea salon, but Isabel takes her time, thinking. By the time she reaches Madeline’s, she knows exactly what she’s going to say.

The tea salon is packed with people gathering in the sitting room and standing along the walls, spilling out into the foyer. Isabel is surprised
to see that there are men here, too. She recognizes Clyde Thomas, the pharmacist, sitting next to his wife as they chat with the couple next to them. There’s a skinny guy that Isabel has seen on billboard signs for KAVL 94.5 FM listening avidly to an older woman who’s giving a lengthy explanation about each page in her scrapbook. A few more men are hovering by the food, filling their plates and laughing. She knows they probably don’t know a thing about scrapbooking but are here in support of Bettie.