~ One ~

Afternoon sunlight slid through the slatted blinds tracing barred shadows on the booth’s red seatback and the woman’s faded jacket. Taking their order, Maggie noticed that she kept it pulled close around her as if she was cold. The obnoxious man seated across the table from her was likely part of the equation.
Making rounds with fresh coffee, she directed her smile at the woman. He was a waste of her time.
“Can I warm up anyone’s coffee?”
“Nah. This horse crap’s all I need,” he said, lighting up his next cigarette.
Chalk up another complaint from the bozo. Maggie rested her smile on the woman’s face a second longer.
She nodded wordlessly, sliding her eyes across at the man. He exhaled a line of smoke while Maggie poured, making no move to direct it away from her. She ignored it.
The woman looked horrified. “Oh, sorry…” Her eyes darted at him and then up at Maggie, “I mean, thanks for the warm-up.”
“What in the hell are you saying ‘sorry’ for?” He bit off the words.
She shrank back against the seat. “Nothin’.”
“Here’s some more creamers,” Maggie said, her tone meaningfully cheery, knowing she was pushing the limit with this guy. “So, anyone interested in dessert today? There’s fresh-baked rhubarb pie from Deacon’s Bakery right here in town.”
The man fixed Maggie with expressionless black eyes. “What does it look like, that we’ve got money to burn?” His cracked lips pulled on his cigarette.
“Then I’ll just get your check,” she said with her practiced smile, turning away in time to escape more smoke. Usually she would have added, ‘Be right back’, but he was not the sort she wasted niceties on.
Back at the register, DJ stopped beside her. “That the bill for the idiot man in the corner booth?” she asked in a low voice. “God I feel sorry for that poor woman.”
Maggie shook her head. “Lord, yes. I wonder where they’re headed.” She’d noticed their late model car when it rumbled to a stop in the parking lot, the back seat full of boxes and bags with more tied in a heap on the roof.
The man stood and shrugged on his jacket. The woman got up and went towards the rest rooms.
From his station at the grill, Den cleared his throat. “Ladies, there are orders getting ready here,” he said, half teasing. But she knew he was well aware of the objectionable customer.
“What do you think, Maggie?” DJ nudged her with an elbow. “Is he talking about one of us?” Den chuckled. She picked up her order, adding under her breath, “Wherever they’re going, it’s too bad she’s stuck with him.”
The man stalked towards the register. Maggie braced for his complaint that she’d been slow bringing the check, but he just grabbed it from her and glared down at it. Den started whistling through his teeth. He was keeping an eye on things. The man muttered something and took out his wallet. The woman emerged from the hall and faded towards the door. Maggie handed him his change. He turned on his heel without saying another thing. She didn’t expect to find a tip waiting for her at their table.
The door’s bell rang them out. Den spoke in his mild voice to no one in particular, “Well, I’ll tell you what Tilly would say about now if she were here, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’.”
“And if she’d been here, she’d probably have said it to that guy’s face,” said Maggie, reaching under the counter for the dish bin.
When she got to their table, the car roared to life out in the parking lot. They backed out and drove towards the street, a cloud of bluish smoke issuing from the tail pipe. There the car sat idling.
DJ came and stood watching with her. “What’s going on do you think?”
“Having car trouble maybe.”
DJ pushed aside the blinds for a better look. She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my God! I think they’re fighting.” The man’s head was bobbing, his mouth working, hands clenched on the steering wheel. At any second Maggie expected him to hit the woman, but instead he got out, stooped, and reached into the back seat.
With customers seated nearby DJ whispered, “Should we get Den?”
Before Maggie could answer, the man tugged out a large plant and threw it onto the ground, the container shattering in a dozen pieces. Inside the car the woman held her hands to her face. They could see she was sobbing. He brushed dirt from his hands, a smile on his face, then got back in and gunned the car out onto the street. Streamers of blue exhaust slowly began lifting from the parking lot.
Den came up behind them, wiping his hands on a towel. “Just what is it you two have your eye on?”
DJ answered, “The jerk who was just in here left us a present. God, I felt so sorry for that woman who was with him.”
He clucked his tongue. “That poor soul. DJ, would you mind getting the broom and going out to clean that mess up?”
“Sure,” she said, and went off towards the kitchen.
Maggie sighed and began gathering up the dishes. All in a day’s work, this tolerating the jerks of the world who occasionally found their way into the Creekside Diner. She worked briskly to avoid the persistent echo of her mother’s voice asking, ‘Don’t you have anything more planned for your life?’ Not that working in the office at Hampstead’s Furniture had been that much better. Or even the years as a reservation manager in the glitzier trappings of Pittsburgh’s Midtown Plaza Hotel, though that did at least call for a dressier wardrobe.
When she came into the kitchen DJ was scooping dirt into a large coffee can. In it was a jade plant or what was left of it, its thick brown stem still had two ragged limbs. More of its plump green leaves fell off as DJ patted dirt around its base.
“Poor thing,” Maggie said. “Looks like it’s a goner.”
“Not if I can help it.” DJ ran water into a glass and poured it slowly onto the soil. “With some TLC and a bit of luck, I think I can salvage it.”
“Let’s hope that woman runs into some better luck soon herself.”
“Amen to that.” DJ made room for it in the row of red geraniums that blazed along the windowsill above the sink. She lifted the can carefully and slid it into the space. Another leaf tumbled into the dishwater with a little splash. “Think Gladys will mind if we keep it there?”
“Not when she hears the story of how it got here.”
DJ looked at her watch. “Holy shit. I’ve got to get moving. I told Uncle Mike I’d be home to meet Kitt’s bus. He’s got work tonight.” She grabbed her jacket and purse from the rack by the door and rushed towards the door. “See you in the A-M, Maggie.”
“You take it easy on the way home, DJ.”
She found Den seated at the counter with a cup of coffee and the paper. He looked over the top of the sports section at her. “I was starting to wonder if anyone was still here to help.”
Maggie rang up the bill for the last customers and cleared their table. They had the place to themselves, not an entirely bad thing. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Den. It was that blessedly quiet time between the lunch crowd and early dinner-goers.
He passed her the sugar. “So what do you hear from your dad and Shirley? How long have they been gone now?”
“Almost four months. The last time I spoke with him he said they were nearly all unpacked.”
Den sipped at his coffee. “So they’ve enjoyed the winter in Florida, have they?”
“Oh yes. Dad sure has. And naturally, Shirley’s in seventh heaven. I’m not sure if he’ll enjoy the summers as much. But last I knew they plan on coming up for part of July.”
Moving South was more Shirley’s idea than her father’s.
Even with all the years she and her father had dated it was still strange to think of them as a married couple. A quiet ceremony conducted by the Justice of the Peace made them husband and wife a few weeks before they left in mid-January for their new place in Sarasota.
As long as it made her father happy, that was all that counted.
“Mmhmm. Speaking from experience, it’s important to keep the missus happy,” Den commented with a chuckle from behind the raised paper.
She swatted the newspaper with her napkin. “Now you be careful what you say, Dennison Williams, because you know I’ll report on you as soon as Gladys gets here.”
He lowered the paper. He was grinning. “I know an idle threat when I hear one. So how’s the work going on those rooms you’re getting set to rent?”
“It’s getting there. Oh, that reminds me I need to stop at the hardware store on my way home and pick up the paint I ordered.”
“You sure have taken on a lot in these past couple months with that house.”
“I try to think of it as an adventure. So far I’m managing. Steve helps out whenever he has the chance. So you’re sure you won’t need me this Saturday?”
“Things should be fine. Mary seems to have things pretty much figured out, wouldn’t you say?”
Maggie nodded. “She does. Luke says she’s really enjoying working here.” Mary Higgins had started waitressing part-time the first of the month.
“That’s good to hear.” Den folded up the paper. “Gladys and I are happy to be able to give you a day off now and then. You’ve earned it. And do I remember you saying your mother was coming to help?”
She stifled a sigh. “She is. And Steve and one of his boys too.” She didn’t say how it would also mean her mother would be staying overnight at the house, an event rare as hen’s teeth as Tilly Gunderson would say.
“Sounds like you’ve got plenty of good help then. Remember me to your mother.”
“I sure will,” she said, getting up to take her empty cup to the kitchen thinking, Sure hope I’m ready for this by Saturday.
* * *
A half hour later she pulled out of the diner’s parking lot in the direction of Black Creek Falls’ small downtown. The Creekside Diner stood in view of the passing traffic on New York State 17. Its two billboards, one facing eastbound traffic, the other west, advertised ‘For Great Home-Cooking, Visit the Creekside Diner…This Exit!’ She drove past the half-empty Falls Antiques Center that had once been the warehouse of Hampstead’s Furniture Manufacturing. Summer’s tourist traffic brought more business to the Center’s several dealers as well as the Creekside. One small benefit of Hampstead’s closing was the extra parking space it created for truckers stopping in at the diner.
Other than the Creekside, the Valley Medical Clinic and the Quick Mart accounted for most of the traffic on this side of town. When the Quick Mart went up there was speculation it might put a dent in the their business, but it hadn’t proved a problem. “At least it’s not a McDonald’s,” Den said when it opened. “People who really need a break will drive on over to us.”
At the corner stop sign she paused, considering whether she should get gas. A couple cars stood at the Mart’s gas pumps, the main reason most people came off the highway. A yellow Hunt’s Express tractor trailer was slowing to make the turn towards the diner. She didn’t recognize the driver so perhaps the billboard’s promise had lured him in. She glanced at the gas gauge. “It can wait.”
For a moment longer she watched the traffic whizzing past the Falls’ exit and wondered which direction the car went an hour ago carrying the distraught woman.
It was all of two blocks to Main Street where she parked in the Falls Plaza parking lot. The Plaza was the closest thing to a shopping center the town had. It had gone up while she was away in Pittsburgh, Black Creek Falls’ version of urban renewal. Some would see it as not much more than a glorified parking lot with stores on three sides: the Big-M Supermarket, the Ben Franklin Variety Store, the Bucket-of-Suds Laundromat, and Monty’s Restaurant & Pizzeria.
She crossed the nearly empty street noticing freshly-painted graffiti on the empty box office windows of the Olympic Theater. The Olympic was an early victim of the Corning Mall, its Cineplex luring local movie-goers the extra eighteen miles when it opened for business three years ago.
Red’s Sentry Hardware was next door to the empty theater, one of four stores still open for business in the block if you didn’t count Wild Lil’s Tavern at the far end. Flats of summer annuals flaunted bright colors at the entrance, gold and orange marigolds, fuzzy blue-headed ageratums, and multi-hued petunias.
“Hey there, Maggie,” sang out Red Jones when she came into the hardware store. He stood up from stocking shelves, dusting off his hands. “I’ll just duck in the back and get you your paint.”
“Okay. How much are your flowers this year, Red?” she called after him.
“A dollar a flat. There’s nine plants in each,” he yelled from the back, returning shortly with the two cans of paint. “Here you go, Olympic’s Best Peach Blush,” he said setting them on the counter.
“Great. I’ll come back soon and pick some out. I need some for the cemetery.” She reached into her purse for her wallet.
“They’re real nice ones this year, so you can’t go wrong. Need any new brushes or rollers for this?”
“No. Dad left me a good supply of things including a whole package of rollers.”
Red smiled. “I’m not surprised. Your dad’s always been organized. So what do you hear from him and Shirley?”
“Mostly that they’re having one heck of a good time. They’ll be spending some time here later in the summer. July, I think.”
The register rang her total.
“The damage is $18.95, young lady.” She handed him a twenty. He gave back the change with a warm smile. “You let me know if there’s ever anything you need help with at your place. I told your dad before he left that you could depend on me anytime.”
“Thanks a lot, Red. I won’t be shy about taking you up on your offer, you can count on that.” She gestured towards the street. “Looks like some artist has been at work again next door.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid so. At least this time someone’s chosen to be poetic. Did you see what it said?”
“No. I’ll take a look.”
“If I didn’t think it would encourage more of it, I’d leave it for a while. Although sometimes when I’m cleaning it off I wonder if that doesn’t just attract some more. There’s some talk that a group of folks hope to start a summer theater group. The music teacher at the high school’s behind it I think.”
“Wouldn’t that be marvelous?” She lifted the cans from the counter.
“Want me to carry those to your car for you?” Red asked.
“No thanks, I can manage.” She grinned. “I’m going to stop on my way out and see what’s so interesting next door.”
She stood before the dusty glass windows of the box office that jutted out onto the sidewalk. A neatly written set of words in neon green read, Spring has sprung! Stop & smell the flowers…but watch out for the dog doodoo. Dog-owners kindly take note!
She smiled to herself. If the unknown writer had ever seen her out walking her black lab they’d know she never walked away from any of Holly’s deposits.
“Hello there, Maggie. Something interesting there?” She turned to see Emma Smith coming up behind her carrying a box from Deacon’s Bakery.
“Hi there, Mrs. Smith. Just the latest graffiti, but this time it’s actually not x-rated.”
“Hmm,” said Emma, peering at the writing and then smiling. “Maybe it’s one of those joggers you see who’s stepped in something unmentionable a time or two. I see you’ve got your hands full, but you should know there’s a great deal on raised doughnuts at Deacon’s.” She held up the string-tied box she carried.
“Oh, that’s a temptation I’m going to pass up for today. But thanks for letting me know!”
She crossed the quiet street back to her car.
It had been a much busier place when she was growing up. For decades Hampstead’s Furniture was the community’s biggest employer. Her father had worked there nearly his entire life. She’d spent her first two years after high school working in the business office before the chance to escape to Pittsburgh came along. Not long after that the company went through a slow-motion death, hemorrhaging jobs for year after year until bankruptcy closed its doors permanently. Now for good-paying jobs people commuted to Corning or further to Elmira.
She turned up Maple Street. Number 408 was the second house Frank Moore had lived in when he and his young bride, the former Patrice Daniels, moved there in 1952. In that year it was a solidly built two-year old bungalow ‘…with a big back yard just waiting for a family to enjoy it,’ was how their Grandma Moore used to describe it when she and Steve were kids.
The house had aged gracefully beneath the sheltering branches of the maple trees. The family within it hadn’t fared quite as well. But however she thought of it, it was just about all hers now.
Holly greeted her at the kitchen door, tail wagging. Maggie let her out into the back yard and then went through the house to the front porch to get the day’s mail. The sun shone in through the door’s decorative glass panes warming the front hall with May’s early evening light.
A yellow tabby was waiting for her when she got back to the kitchen. “Hey there, Sunny Cat. I’ll have your supper for you shortly. Be patient.” She opened the door at Holly’s woof and the big dog bustled back inside full of fresh air and tail-wagging goodwill. Maggie dished up their food and set it out for them, then turned on the oven to heat her own supper.
She carried the paint into the back, her footsteps sounding hollowly in the hallway. A stillness hovered in this part of the house since her father’s departure. She opened the door to his empty bedroom, hunching her shoulders against the chill of the unheated room. Scuffed places on the floor showed where the bed and dresser once stood.
She set down the cans, looking around at the pale green walls that were her haven growing up, soon to be transformed by Olympic’s Peach Blush. Once she’d left home her father had made it his room. ‘Not much point in heating the whole darned house.’ That, and minimizing the upkeep for him, she was sure. Her brother’s room next door was larger, but she’d always loved her built-in bookshelves that provided lots of space for her numerous treasures. He’d turned Steve’s room into a study, completing his retreat from the upstairs and its memories.
Sunny padded in with his friendly cat-chirp and jumped up on the wide windowsill to peer out into the back yard. She joined him at the window, automatically stroking his soft fur. Shadows were deepening under the maples, their leaves still a luminescent spring green. From here her father’s flower bed didn’t look too bad, the late tulips flaunting their colors despite the healthy crop of dandelions threatening to turn it all into a weed patch.
It seemed a shame to let it go, but too much else demanded her attention. The deal with her father was that after a year or two she’d show she could handle things, paying the taxes and managing the upkeep. Going into it was exhilarating but some days now she felt more like a pioneer exploring uncharted and sometimes scary new territory.
But if the plan of renting part of the house paid off, it would show both her parents that she was doing more with herself being back home than just waiting tables.
She arched her back easing tired muscles. Sunny flipped his tail, looking up at her hopefully. She gave his ears a final rub. “Enough dawdling. Time for you and me to head back to the kitchen.”

“More coffee, Luke? It’s a fresh pot.” Maggie paused over his mug with the carafe. There weren’t many weekday mornings that Luke Higgins wasn’t sitting at the counter having breakfast after finishing his school bus run.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am, I could use a warm up,” he answered, holding his cigarette to the side, the smoke rising in zigzag tendrils from fingers that trembled. “It was a bit nippy on Number 10 this morning. The danged heater was acting up again.” He’d kept his down vest buttoned up, his ponytail tucked discreetly beneath its collar. People’s respect for his military service made them tolerant of his choice of long hair, still considered a bit radical by local standards.
This morning he looked a little travel-worn to her, a phrase that often came to mind about people who came into the Creekside needing a break from the road. Luke’s life had taken him farther than he wished to go.
He’d been three grades ahead of her in school, one of a handful of the town’s young men who saw service in Vietnam. Some, like her brother Steve, had been quick to get to college and later he’d drawn a high lottery number further insulating him from the draft. Luke had volunteered. It was an odd coincidence that his return to his hometown involved his father, just as hers had. “We both just sort of washed back up on the banks of Black Creek Falls, you and me.” he’d said one time back when they were dating.
She set down his order of pancakes and sausage. “Thanks,” he said, stubbing out the cigarette. “Damn, didn’t mean to do that,” he said, brushing off ashes that settled on the book by his elbow. “Miranda will yell for sure when she sees this,” naming the town’s vintage librarian.
“Oh, you know you couldn’t get on Miss King’s bad side, devoted patron that you are. What are you reading now?”
“That new biography of Lyndon Johnson. Let’s say I have an endless curiosity about the guy who messed around with those falling dominoes over there before I showed up, bless his departed soul.” He grinned and reached for the maple syrup.
They sometimes teased Luke about using the diner as his own private reading room, the corner window booth being his favorite place to sit with multiple cups of coffee and an ashtray that gradually overflowed.
“Hey, Den,” he called over to where Den was wielding the tools of his breakfast trade, “You’ve outdone yourself with these pancakes this morning.”
“Blame Gladys. She whipped up the batter this morning.”
“Who’s bad-mouthing me out there?” came Gladys’ voice from the kitchen and then her throaty chuckle.
“Oh, it’s just that no-account school bus driver in here bothering us again,” Den said loudly.
“Don’t know what I’d do without you people to feed me breakfast after dealing with those crazy kids on my bus,” he said and gave Maggie a wink. The teasing seemed to be perking him up some.
“Oh, I doubt you’d starve,” she said, giving him her own bright smile while she straightened the menus by the cash register.
“Probably not, just be a bit loonier than I am now.” He said and laughed.
Complaining about the kids on his bus was a daily ritual, but he didn’t fool anyone. Often he’d describe some accomplishment of one or another, bragging like a doting parent. Sometimes a child confided a problem to him and he’d come in and mull it over with her. She suspected that he saw himself in so many of them, just kids growing up in a small town. His childhood hadn’t been an easy one, his father’s drinking often creating chaos. He’d left for the Army right after graduation, escaping his family’s private hell only to find a larger one in the jungles of Vietnam. Some of this he’d shared with her when they were close, but it finally grew to be too heavy a burden, and she closed the door on more.
“So where’s ‘Trouble’ this morning?” Luke asked, using his affectionate nickname for DJ.
Den harrumphed. “Late again and wearing out more of my patience than she should. Happened last week too.” The kitchen’s back door opened. “Let’s hope that’s her now.”
But it was Tilly Gunderson they heard exchanging ‘Good Mornings’ with Gladys. The Creekside’s former owner came through the kitchen doorway, her blue mug in hand. “Well, here’s everyone, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by the looks of you.” Tilly stopped by for breakfast nearly every morning before opening her small craft shop around the corner, the What-Not Shop.
“Good morning, Tilly,” Den said. “Got your home fries just about ready.”
“Good morning, young lady,” Luke said, clearing the space next to him. She handed her leather clutch purse to Maggie and tucked her feet under the counter.
“Thank you, Maggie.” Tilly glanced around. “Where’s Delores hiding?”
Maggie stowed the purse and returned to pour fresh coffee into Tilly’s mug. “Oh, she’s running a little late.”
“God help that girl, but it’s been more than once this week hasn’t it?”
“No, it was last Thursday, I think. Kitt wasn’t feeling well yesterday, so that might be what’s keeping her.”
DJ was a single mom. She and Kitt had moved up from Binghamton wanting to make a fresh start in a new place. Her elderly uncle made room for them. Most of the time she juggled things successfully. When she didn’t the extra headaches that created at work usually ended up on Maggie.
“Your order is ready, Maggie,” Den said.
She brought the French toast to the older woman sitting alone in a window booth. “Thanks so much, dear,” she said. “This should give me the boost I need to keep up with my four-year old grandson when I get to Rochester. Would you like to see his picture?” When Maggie had taken her order she’d talked enthusiastically about her new grandchild she was on her way to see that day.
“Sure I would,” Maggie said bending down to admire the photo of a laughing little boy. “Oh, isn’t he adorable. He’ll make a good big brother, I’ll bet.”
“Oh my, yes. The first thing the two of us are going to do is make a welcome-to-the-world present for his little sister. Isn’t that marvelous? And that was all his idea!” She beamed at Maggie. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your work, dear. And I’d better get busy eating so I can be on my way.”
“Enjoy your meal and just let me know if you need anything more.”
A late model black Impala pulled into the parking lot going a little fast. DJ at last. She jumped out and hurried towards the back door, emerging from the kitchen in short order tying on her apron. “Hey, Den. I’m so sorry I was late. Kitt woke up with a stomach ache and I had to make sure Uncle Mike was going to be able to manage.”
Den took his time answering, as much of a sign of displeasure as he ever showed. “It’s been a slow enough morning, so we’ve been managing.” He stirred the batch of home fries for a minute. “So you expect your uncle will be managing okay with Kitt?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
The rest of them kept a respectful silence until it all played out. Maggie clinked the clean silverware together rolling table settings into napkins.
Den opened a fresh carton of eggs and cracked two onto the grill. “Okay,” he said, his tone still stern. “Sorry to hear your daughter’s not well, DJ. But next time at least pick up the phone and call so we’ll know why you’re not here when you should be.”
“Absolutely. I promise to do just that.”
There was a pause.
“Morning, Hon’,” Tilly said from her place at the counter.
DJ turned to her with a grateful expression. “Good morning, Tilly. How are you today?”
“I’m just fine, dear. Sorry to hear your little one’s under the weather.”
“Thanks for that.” She came and stood beside Maggie reaching for some silverware. “Sorry to have it all land on you this morning, Maggie.”
“Don’t worry. We managed just fine.” She brushed back a straying strand of DJ’s hair and straightened her apron waistband.
“And you know I would have jumped up to help in a jiffy if they’d needed it,” Tilly told her.
Maggie took the carafe and went to check once more on the woman by the window. “Would you like your coffee warmed up?”
“No thank you, my dear. I need to be on my way right along.” She winked. “And you know, too much coffee will have me looking for a rest stop twenty miles down the road.”
Maggie smiled. “I hear what you’re saying. Would you like your check then?”
She was just backing her car out of the parking space when Maggie returned to clear the table. Maggie returned her friendly wave. 390 North was a half hour drive west on 17 and from there another hour to Rochester. Maggie smiled to herself, picturing the woman’s daughter and grandson eagerly watching for her late-morning arrival.
She gave the table a final wipe and headed for the kitchen. Gladys was laughing at something and with Luke nowhere to be seen, he was likely the cause.
He met her at the doorway. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said reaching for the dish bin.
She arched an eyebrow. “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re cutting down on my tip today.”
“Nope. Just helping out an old friend, or maybe you’re my younger friend?” He adopted a puzzled expression. “Wait, I think it’s both.”
“Well, either way, thanks,” she said, smiling at his familiar antics.
“You’re entirely welcome. Say, does my mom have hours today?”
“Yes. Noon to six. As a matter of fact she’s filling in for me Saturday so I can get started on the painting at the house.”
“Oh, right. I remember her telling me that. I’m not sure that’s what I’d do on my day off, but to each his own. You’ve got to get out and enjoy yourself more often, Maggie Moore.”
He should know.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, business before pleasure. Once I get the house in shape, I’ll have time to kick up my heels.”
“You know who to turn to for advice on that.” He grinned and went back into the kitchen.
It was moments like this that made her glad they’d been able to stay such good friends.

By the time she’d finished her supper dishes it was going for eight-thirty. Holly looked at her hopefully as she dried her hands.
“Oh, all right. I really do owe you a walk, but just around the block tonight.”
The phone’s ring stopped her on the way to the door.
“Hi, Maggie,” came her brother’s voice.
“Hey, Steve. How are things with you folks?”
“We’re fine, thanks. I was just calling to double check on Saturday. Eric and I are planning to get there about nine.”
“That sounds good,” she told him. “I’ve got the paint and all ready to go. Tuna fish sandwiches sound okay for lunch?”
“Actually Mom said she was going to be bringing a casserole or something like that.”
“Oh really? Well, that’s nice of her.”
“Yeah. I talked with her last night. She said she was going to call you. You know, I’d forgotten how long it had been since she’d actually stayed there at the house.” He gave a short laugh. “But I guess that does make sense when you think about it. Okay then, I just wanted to touch base with you.”
“Thanks, Steve. See you Saturday. Say ‘hi’ to Becky and the boys.”
“Will do.”
She pushed open the kitchen’s screen door and followed Holly out to the sidewalk where they turned towards Meadow Street.
Lights were on next door in the Rabinsky’s living room, the sounds of a television show filtering out through their open front door. Philippa and Max, both now retired from Corning Glass, had moved in when she was in junior high. Like Red at the hardware store, they’d assured Frank Moore all Maggie had to do was give a yell when she needed a hand with anything. She’d come home a week ago to find that Max had mowed her lawn while she was at work. “I needed the extra exercise to work off my winter pounds,” he’d said with his genial smile when she’d gone over to thank him.
Saturday was the day after tomorrow. At least Steve and Eric would be there most of the time. Why her mother felt she had to be a part of all this, she wasn’t sure. Liz had said, “Maybe it’s some sort of delayed maternal instinct. If I were you, I’d just go with it for now.”
Easy for her to say, even if she was a mother herself.
She and Holly passed Liz’s old house where Phil and Vickie Smith now lived with their two little girls. She made a mental note to give Liz a call when she got back to the house.
The sunset was fast disappearing in the west. Overhead a brightening half moon rode wispy clouds. She scarcely needed to look down to avoid the frost-heaves in the old sidewalk. There was no way to know how many times she’d walked the block. If it wasn’t to spend time with Liz, it was to put some distance between herself and her parents, her mother more often. ‘Young lady, take yourself for a walk around the block and come back with a better attitude.’
She paused halfway along Garden Street to listen to the silvery clatter from Black Creek’s upper falls two blocks over, and then walked on past the faded but imposing grandeur of Tillerman Mansion that housed the town library. It was open Thursday evenings and lights shone from the windows.
The few times she’d managed to get to Pittsburgh’s Public Library she felt lost in its cavernous rooms. And there’d certainly been no one there like Miranda King, the diminutive overseer of the Falls Free Library who’d greet you with a warm smile when you walked in the door.

The phone was ringing when she came in the kitchen door. Probably her mother. She took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.
“Hey you, where the heck have you been?”
She smiled with relief to her Liz’s voice. “Hey there, yourself. I was planning to give you a buzz when I got back from walking the block.”
“Sort of deja vu all over again, I’d say,” Liz laughed, “I could walk that block with my eyes closed. How many times would you say we did? A million?”
“Give or take a few thousand. Hope you’re not calling to cancel our movie date.”
“Hardly. I’m in desperate need of some major Me-time. Actually tonight I’ve been considering running away from home or at least moving in with you. Oh heck…hold on a sec.” There was a muffled sound of the phone being set down. There was no mistaking the no-nonsense Mom-voice she used, “Russell, it’s your sister’s night to watch Little House.” More sharp rustling sounds. “I mean now, young man.” Maggie grinned at the picture she conjured of the chronically chaotic Phillips’ household. “Still there, Maggie? Danny’s working the late shift.”
“Thought so. Need me to come over and help you regain control?”
“Moral support by phone is the most I can ask for tonight. Unless I can send you one of these Indians. I should have listened when my mother warned us not to let the kids outnumber Danny and me.”
“The baby asleep?”
“Thank the good lord, yes. But then Samantha’s such a sweet baby, who am I to complain? You sure you don’t want one though?”
“I think I’ll just keep my honorary title of Aunt Maggie, thank you.”
“Sure. Just wimp out on me.” She laughed. “Well, I’ve got to get these two hoodlums to bed. I’ll be glad when it really warms up and they can wear themselves out outdoors after supper. Nothing like fresh air to make them sleep like babies! See you tomorrow at six-thirty we said, right?”
“Six-thirty it is. Tell the kids Aunt Maggie says ‘hi’.”
“Okey dokey. Can’t wait till tomorrow!”
Bless Liz. After finishing high school Christmas cards kept their friendship alive for a few years. Reuniting with Liz after moving back home from Pittsburgh had made practically all of it worth while.

Minutes later the phone rang again as she expected it would. This time it was her mother. She sat down at the kitchen table, the phone resting against her shoulder. “Hi, Mom. How’s life in the Finger Lakes? Sold any mansions this week?”
Her mother’s life in Ithaca revolved around two things, her husband Mitchell, an English professor at Ithaca College, and her work as a realtor.
“Don’t I wish. But I can’t complain. It’s been a good spring for our office. Thanks for asking. Mitchell and I are doing well though, I’m glad to say. How’s everything there?”
“Going well. No complaints.” She drummed her fingers on the old oak table. Getting a conversation going with her mother often felt like wading through molasses.
“Is the house starting to feel empty yet?”
This had been the theme of several conversations since her father and Shirley left. Did she hear the irony in asking about that? Maggie said, “Not after the wild party I threw this past weekend. Only some of Grandma’s dishes got broken.” There was silence for a moment. Maggie took a sort of perverse pleasure in dropping provocative remarks into their conversations now and then. “Hey, I’m just kidding, Mom.” She paused and added, “The party’s set for next weekend.”
“Oh…a big party?”
Maggie pictured the frown line deepening on her mother’s forehead. She managed a laugh. “No party at all. Just me being a little slap-happy after a busy day.”
“Oh. Of course.” Her mother sighed. Maggie could just imagine her thoughts, ‘My daughter, my cross to bear.’ She cleared her throat. “Well, I spoke with Stephen last night about Saturday. He told me that he and Eric plan to get to your place by nine, so I’ll aim for that too.”
“Sounds fine, Mom. I’m going to get some pastries from Deacons for everyone.”
“That’s nice of you. And listen, don’t worry about lunch. I’m going to bring a casserole of some sort and things to go with it. I know Friday is one of your busy nights at the diner.”
“That’s really great of you to do, Mom. Thanks.” She’d actually swapped shifts with Mary Higgins in order to have a night out with Liz, but sharing that with her mother seemed pointless.
“You’re welcome,” she said, sounding pleased. “Okay then, see you bright and early on Saturday. Oh, and Mitchell wanted me to say hello for him.”
“Please tell him I said hi back. See you soon.” She hung up the phone.
“Maybe too soon, if you ask me,” she said aloud. Holly thumped her tail on the floor where she was lying under the table. Maggie broke into a grin. “So it’s you who’s really listening to me? Time for bed for us, wouldn’t you say? Need a trip outside first?”
The dog followed her to the back porch door. She stood watching Holly and thinking of Steve’s comment about their mother staying over at the house for the first time in years.
She bit her lip. Who knows, maybe she’s nervous about it too.
‘The incredible shrinking family.’ she used to say to Liz. ‘Steve made it out first. Then Mom. Then me. And that left Dad holding the fort.’
Her mother had called several times to talk in the first few weeks after she left, but Maggie fended off her attempts to communicate. It was in the late fall when her letters began to arrive. Maggie had shoved them unopened into a shoebox with visions of making a bonfire of them in the back yard. Moving to Pittsburgh when she was twenty made it easier to forget about them. The letters stopped.
But that level of anger proved impossible to sustain. The slow-motion tangle of events that began the summer she’d finished high school gradually took on a recognizable shape. And there was something about reaching her twenty-fifth birthday, the year after she’d come back from Pittsburgh, that brought more acceptance of her mother’s new life. By then it had been seven years since Patrice Moore packed two suitcases, filled a cardboard box with her journals, and taken the Short Line bus to Ithaca where she moved in with Madge Peters, her high school friend rumored to have maybe instigated the whole business.
Long ago she’d accepted her father’s making his peace with their divorce. And Steve too. After all, he was married, and he and Becky had made Patrice a grandma. Somehow that made sense.
But Maggie still felt only an uneasy truce with her.
Oh, it was fine for others to have accepted things and moved on. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she never would entirely.
As far as she was concerned, that level of betrayal condemned you for life.