Chapter 4-Stopping
The drive to Sour Grapes’ home in Mendota Heights, Minnesota would take at least nine hours if Helen drove nonstop.
Initially, she pondered the possibility of seeing her mother since she was passing through Chicago, but the weirdness of her life left no room for Anita Barnes or her little gold toothed live-in named Waldo.
Another time perhaps, although at some point Helen should call to check in on her; it is what they did.
Helen's interactions with her mother were simply that, an interaction which did in fact check the box of the two women having spoken.
It was more than Aunt Stephanie had gotten from Abigail in nearly twenty years.
“You can rest up, spend time with the guys, and then in the morning, refreshed, drive the last four to wherever the sun stopped shining in Minnesota,” he said.
“It's like negative twenty or some shit up there. Do I need to buy you a fur coat lined in fur along with boots lined in fur? Seriously, that kind of cold, if you had a nut sack, it would freeze clean off.”
“Nice imagery, thanks. I purchased heavy winter clothing for the trip,” she said. “For some reason, I'm not looking forward to this one.”
“If Bad Apple has any intel on her, get it from him, and if not, just do that thing you do,” he said, offering a wistful smile.
“That thing I do?” Helen asked, wondering what he was talking about.
“Start a conversation with her over something you see, she gets comfortable and then tells you about the one time she thought it was a fart, but turned out to be something else, she was mortified, the date ended early, and she will never eat refried beans again,” he said, nodding his head. “That kind of thing.”
“That entire analogy has mortified me,” she told him, thinking how handsome and hunky he was. “Jay, did that happen to you?”
“Baby, I think that has happened to everyone at one point in their lives,” he said, scowling. “I will never confirm nor deny it happened to me on my first date with Eliza Cole, driving the first Mustang I ever owned, which had beige cloth seats. I also, to this day, will not eat refried beans.”
“I learned something new about you today.”
“You also learned that I worry about my wife,” he said, feeling the rise of emotions in his wheelhouse of manliness. “Be safe on the road, Helen.”
“Roger that,” she said, laying in a course for Janesville.
To ensure the Bad Apple would be home, she called ahead, asking if it would be okay to stay the evening.
He was happy to oblige but had little to no information to add on Sour Grapes outside of her dislike of people, especially interacting with them in person, online, and in general.
She arrived at the home to find Stephen out for the evening at a cooking class. Jeffrey had a date. Ricky, she learned, was currently in Ohio to see about his Mama and would return by the end of the week, leaving Apple home alone with Oscar. She immediately noticed a change in the boy.
Oscar, extra happy to see her, pulled Helen to the side. “Aunt Helen, you need to call and let my Daddy know you arrived in one piece.”
He said it and started to laugh. Helen didn't know the child had a sense of humor, and he pushed the envelope. “Maybe when you call him, let him know you made it, and in the background, I yell out, Aunt Helen, are you talking to my Daddy?”
Helen tried to hide her amusement at the child, refusing to go along with his antics, but later she would replay the jest with Mustang.
She was also surprised to learn from the Bad Apple that the boy hadn't stopped talking about Mustang, and before going to bed, Oscar sat at her side.
From his pocket, Oscar pulled out a lump of folded bills, as if he'd been saving the money for something special.
“Sweetie, what is this?” she asked, looking at the money he was passing to her.
“I want to give you this to get me a suitcase,” Oscar said.
“A suitcase? Is Bad Apple taking you guys on a trip or something?”
His eyes were twinkling when he looked at her.
“We have spring break coming up next month, and I'm hoping, once I write to Uncle Jay, that he will come to get me to spend the week with you guys.
I need the suitcase to carry my stuff so I don't show up looking raggedy,” he said, giving a small smile.
One, she'd never really seen the kid smile or laugh, which caught her off guard.
She accepted the money, nodding her head in agreement.
In the kitchen, Bad Apple sat up, waiting for Stephen to return home, holding the phone in his hand just in case anything went awry with both boys being out of the house.
“I would never have taken you to be the mother hen type,” Helen said.
“They are teenagers, and teenagers are biologically wired to be dumb as hell,” he said. “I have to stay on the ready when they are not in this house.”
Bad Apple looked back at her. “Oscar is ready to live with you guys. He's coming out of his shell and is trying to make furniture. I caught him the other day with a broom, sitting between two chairs pretending to row a canoe. Why is he pretending to row a canoe, Helen?”
“Jay likes to canoe,” she replied.
“Ah,” he said. “Spring break is next month. Do you think Jay will want him for a week?”
“Don't know, and I am going to be in St. Paul,” she said. “Don't know how that will work out, Jay working, me not being home.”
“Hmmp,” he mumbled, looking out the window and seeing headlights arriving in the yard.
Helen saw his body physically relax. “If it is meant to work out, it will, Apple. If Oscar's home is with us, all of it will fall into place. Goodnight.”
“Rest well,” he said, moving from the window when he heard keys in the back door.
The following morning, not feeling completely rested, Helen loaded up, waving farewell and aiming the nose for Wisconsin Dells on the I-90. Her mind went over the past two weeks, enjoying the visit with the in-laws, sharing new recipes with her mother-in-law, and planning her wedding.
“My mother will need to come to my wedding,” she said, nearly choking on the disdain of the woman's soon-to-be poorly planned overt attempts to steal the thunder from the bride. “I can plan for that as well.”
She continued driving, nearing Eau Clair, grateful Belial didn't make an appearance at their home due to scheduling conflicts but stating he would come another time.
This made her happy, and she maintained a straight face when Mustang said Belial wouldn't be coming.
Her husband was disappointed, but she was not.
She hummed her way along, arriving in the Twin Cities right at lunchtime, switching to four-wheel drive to navigate the snow-covered ground, and pulling into a morose landscape of hibernating trees and a drab brown home.
The garage doors were brown, the roofing was brown, and the home had large windows, which were trimmed in brown.
“Breath deep, Helen,” she said softly, cutting the engine. She climbed the two flights of stairs which had been cleared of snow and covered in salt, she assumed, in honor of her arrival.
The office bag hung from her shoulder, and she dragged a mid-sized suitcase behind her.
She reached the front door, and her gloved hand pressed the bell, waiting for Sour Grapes to arrive and let her into the den of silent horrors.
An icy shiver ran down her spine as the shadow of a person arrived at the door, opening it partially.
Sour Grapes stood in the entryway, dressed as if she were headed out for an afternoon meeting with the Ladies' Auxiliary Club. She didn't offer a smile but merely appeared to be bored with Helen's arrival. Her head tilted as she looked around her for luggage.
“Is that all you have for three months?”
“I have another in the car,” she said.
“Your F150?”
“No, A Ford Explorer,” she said. “Is there room in the garage for my vehicle?”
“There is a second garage down the path where I park my outside work transportation,” she said. “Do come in. We are preparing for lunch.”
“We?”
“Bella,” Sour Grapes said as an older woman arrived, wearing a starched white apron over a black dress and offering a nod, “is preparing a light fare for lunch. Dinner shall be Wellingtons with an endive salad. I do hope you are a meat-eater.”
“I am,” Helen said.
“Bella, please take...what is your name, dear? I am not spending three months calling you Cranberry and you calling me Sour,” she said, looking down her Patrician nose.
“Helen.”
“I am Tiffany Morrow and a three letter-wielding and card-carrying anthropologist,” she said, closing the door and looking back at Helen. “Are you aware of what an anthropologist does?”
“You study humankind, biological, cultural and social aspects of what it means to live and survive on this planet,” Helen said. “Are you published?”
“I am. I’ve written a few textbooks, papers, yaddah yaddah,” she said, looking at the housekeeper. “Bella, please take Helen's things to the guestroom. Helen, join me for a tour.”
Helen glanced briefly at Bella, taking note of a few major features she wouldn't comment about, but they were noticeable.
It took less than 20 seconds for Helen to change her mind about every negative thought she had about the woman.
The first thing Tiffany Morrow, PhD showed Helen was a living room with three separate spaces, all which faced floor to ceiling bookcases, which were filled with reference materials on everything from cyber security, home remedies, thrillers and even a romance section.
Windows and glass doors so clean and bright showcased the Winter landscape over decking covered in white powder. She pointed to the romance novels.
“That is Bella's section; although she pretends not to read the smut on the page, I have noticed the replacement of some of the spines,” she said in a droll tone. “We read, but we don't judge.”
“The lighting here is amazing,” Helen said.