Chapter 16 #4
People deal with catastrophe differently.
For a little while, I forgot we were all broke and concentrated on what I could construct for supper out of these exotic ingredients.
It turned out to be a very good chicken potpie, made with saffron and white German asparagus, imported English peas, and turned carrots.
I felt like a genius. When I went upstairs, both their bedroom doors were shut tight.
Neither answered when I knocked. I ended up dining alone, standing and eating over the kitchen sink.
The night passed and then it was a bright new day.
It hadn’t escaped me that Meg’s mother hadn’t shown up yesterday.
With the way things were going, I had no idea what I’d say to her if she did.
By that afternoon I’d gathered up as many letters from the Bank of Lafayette County as I could find in the mess in Rory’s room.
There were old letters and new letters, unopened envelopes and puckered pages stained with coffee, years of account statements and warnings to make a payment.
I found two more recent letters with a word that stopped me cold: foreclosure.
Foreclosure proceedings will commence if payment is not made.
I finished cleaning up Rory’s bedroom, though the rotten odor still lingered.
At last I found a freshly moldy plate of stroganoff from the week before tucked under the bed and a half-eaten can of sardines in the back of a dresser drawer.
As Meg would say, you cannot make this stuff up.
After that I had to wonder—was sleeping in here with rotting food actually preferable to sleeping with Frances?
Or was it some kind of terrible punishment he inflicted on himself?
It all would’ve been just a hair easier if Rory hadn’t taken the damn radio. Any kind of noise, besides the ticking grandfather clock, to break the quiet desperation in the house.
Mrs. Tartt came down around lunchtime to ask for “a little toast,” genuinely apologizing for not “visiting more.” Like I was an unattended-to presidential houseguest and she hadn’t lost a fortune.
Two days after Rory’d left and she was already taking on the wrung-out-rag look of my mother.
She seemed thinner under her long nightgown, her grayish-blond hair flat to her head.
Evidently poor wasn’t very good for the looks.
Around one, the telephone rang. It too had been strangely silent, and suddenly it was like a screaming shrew.
Feet hammered down the stairs. “It’s Pripp,” I said, handing the receiver to Frances.
She froze, eyes like saucers, then frowned and drew in a trembling breath and stuck on a maniacal smile—a whole dime store novel’s worth of emotions before she even said hello.
“Of course I’m fine!” she said into the receiver. “Everybody’s fine, whydaya ask?”
Frances popped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Tell Garnett it was on account of—well, I’ve just been so sick. It must’ve been something I ate … Yes, I promise I’ll be in next week.”
I managed to sit her at the kitchen table and serve her a plate of biscuits. She’d finally stripped off the navy dress from two days ago and wore just the white petticoat that went underneath.
“We need to talk, Franny. You know I was supposed to go home yesterday, right?”
“Do you think Pripp knew? About Rory? Do you think people are talking about us?” Her face was yellow with fear.
“I don’t think so, Franny. Look, it’s been two days. Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“Like what?”
“Like … call the sheriff?”
“I am not calling the sheriff on my husband.” I had to admit, it was impressive how sure she sounded. Like maybe there was a protocol in the handbook for something like this.
“We have to do something, Franny. At some point I have to go home.”
Her red, swollen eyes went wide. “You’re leaving me? After everything that’s happened? I don’t know where my husband is, I don’t even have help, and—and you’re leaving me?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—don’t think about it right now.” The next train wasn’t until next week anyway.
As I was carrying a tray of cream of mushroom soup up to Mrs. Tartt, I met her coming down the stairs.
Her ear was turned like she was listening to something very far away.
She walked over to the curved Swedish grandfather clock by the front door.
It was taller than her, with long brass chimes and bluebirds painted around the roman numerals, mouths open, chirping.
“My grandmother’s clock stopped ticking,” she said.
She sounded confused and a little put out.
Somehow I’d missed the silence. “Polly always wound it. Every Tuesday.” She opened the little glass door to move the hands; they’d stopped at 4:05.
She looked around, her mouth drawn down deep at the sides.
“Heavens, I don’t even know what time it is anymore. ”
“The house is getting dusty,” Frances said, pouting at the dining table. “See the table down at that end?” She stared at it, her face full of doom.
“I will get to it, Frances,” I said, “when I finish the dishes.” It was Friday, but still neither of them seemed to know what to do with themselves, though evidently it wasn’t helping me clean up the kitchen or the rest of the house.
It’d only been three days, but my arms already ached from cooking three meals a day, not to mention tidying the rest of the house, tending to the animals, and straightening up the mess Rory’d left behind, plus going through the bills—and it would only get worse.
I brought more coffee out to the dining room when I really wanted to stick a cloth in Frances’s hand and a mop somewhere else, but I told myself she was in mourning.
They both were—Mrs. Tartt had lost a son, Frances a husband, and they’d both lost their dear old friend, money.
“Good morning.” Mrs. Tartt walked in. She was wearing proper clothes for the first time in days. A pale pink dress, red lipstick, and powdered cheeks, though she still had circles under her eyes. But she looked more clearheaded, and I hoped this meant we could finally talk about what to do.
“I thought I’d ask Mr. Binny to ride me to town in a little while. I’m almost out of my heart pills.” She had a piece of paper and a fountain pen beside her plate. “Let me know if anybody wants to add anything to the list.”
“Oh, I do,” Frances said, leaning over.
I checked on the ham-and-cheese casserole in the oven, and when I came back and looked over their shoulders, Frances was adding things to a list in her perfect penmanship. “Franny,” I said.
“What?” She kept writing.
“Why would you waste money on cream? You have a cow outside.”
“I like the store-bought kind better.”
“What are those?” I said, pointing to a thing.
“Memphis Ice Slippers. They’re the most wonderful cookies, Mrs. Rich ordered them for me two weeks ago.”
“Orange marmalade?” I felt bad but, “Mrs. Tartt, is that really a necessity?”
She shrugged. “I just put on there what I thought we needed.”
“What’s Denton’s Furniture?” I asked.
“I want to order a new radio set,” Mrs. Tartt said. “Don’t worry, I’ll charge everything, and we’ll take care of it when this is all over. We’ve got an account everywhere in town.”
“We do, don’t we?” Frances said, sitting up straighter.
I took the list away. “You also have debts all over town and an overdue mortgage, so please don’t go charging anything else. You might need that credit later on.” I set my hand down flat on the table. “What we need to do is figure out exactly what you’ve got to live on. Go get your pocketbooks.”
Mrs. Tartt opened hers in her lap. “All I’ve got is a quarter. I gave Picador the rest. We still owe them twenty-two dollars, you know.”
“Franny?” I said.
“I don’t use my allowance to pay for house things,” she said. I shut my eyes and stared her down—somehow managing to do both—until she said, “Fine,” and came back with a little black coin purse. She counted the contents with a finger. “I have eighty-two cents.”
I fetched an empty Luzianne Tea can, took their money, and dumped it in.
“Alright, look: Mrs. Tartt, you need to go down to that bank and take out everything you’ve got left.
Thirty-six dollars and fourteen cents is what Mr. Allison said.
I don’t know how it all works, but I’m afraid they might take it from you.
I’ll come with you, and we’re gonna ask him some questions about this mortgage. ”
Mrs. Tartt visibly shuddered. “Do I have to go back in there? Maybe they’ll talk to … you?”
“I don’t know if they will, but I’ll ask.” I went and got the big black checkbook off Rory’s desk in his study and put it in front of Mrs. Tartt. “Write a check and I’ll cash it for you.” At least I knew that part.
“I don’t believe I know how,” Mrs. Tartt said. “Do you know how to write a check, Frances?”
Frances shook her head. “Rory said it was unladylike.”
“How convenient of him.” I’d seen Mr. Parkins write enough, so I sat down at the head of the table with the checkbook and Mrs. Tartt’s fountain pen and wrote out a check to Cash for thirty-six dollars and fourteen cents. I handed Mrs. Tartt the pen to sign her name on the bottom.
“Why are you being so bossy about everything?” Frances asked. “And who said you could go touching things in Rory’s study?”
I tore the long check out of the book and spoke gently as I could without screaming. Had no one taught her anything because she was pretty? “Because eventually I have got to go home, Franny, and when I do, I need to know you’re being smart.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Mrs. Tartt said. She glanced at Frances. “Then it’ll just be us.”
“Please, please don’t go, Birdie,” Frances begged. “We need your help.”
“Don’t worry about it yet. The next train’s not for another week,” I said.
“Maybe Rory’ll be home by then,” Frances said.
It took me a full five seconds to respond to this. “Maybe he will, Franny.” Just those few words made her smile a little. It was pathetic.
“You’ve been awfully good to us, Birdie,” Mrs. Tartt said.
“She can’t help it,” Frances said. It was almost tender. She got up to, finally, take a bath. But a few seconds later, she came back in and said, “There’s some woman outside, staring at our house.”
“Who is it?” Mrs. Tartt asked. “I hope I didn’t forget bridge club, did I?”
“She looks shabby. Probably just a hobo looking for food. Birdie, you need to quit feeding them.”
“I haven’t fed anybody here,” I said and got up to go see, wondering how Frances could go from help us to don’t help others in a matter of seconds.
Oh good Lord, she’s here. Meg’s mama was standing outside.