Black Chokeberry, page 1
Black Chokeberry
© 2012 Martha Nelson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Black Chokeberry
Brown Books Publishing Group
16250 Knoll Trail Drive, Suite 205
Dallas, Texas 75248
www.BrownBooks.com
(972) 381-0009
A New Era in Publishing™
ISBN 978-1-61254-079-5
Library of Congress Control Number 2012932934
Printing in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Mark
Your strength, encouragement, and the precious gift of time
have made all the difference.
Thank you for loving me, and more than that,
for believing in me. I love you, Mark Nelson.
and
To Billy and Terry
Wherever you are,
there I am,
loving you both
with a Mother’s heart.
Contents
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Sally Kemp, my wise and talented editor, for her guidance, patience, and willingness to read the manuscript one more time. Thanks to Laura and David Leach for opening doors and being my trusted friends; and to the wonderful editors, designers, and encouragers at Brown Books—especially Rayven Williams. Thank you for your brilliance and support all along this amazing way. To my wellspring in the wilderness and fellow writer, Tina Benson, my heartfelt thanks for knowing just what to say and when to say it; and the same to Robert Sanders, who loved Ruby instantly.
In particular, this story is written with a warm embrace to my sister-cousins, Mimi Brennan Bruckenfeld and Gigi Brown Scriggins, for their generosity, love, and enthusiasm in all of my life and particularly in this project, and as a tribute to my kind, fun-loving, generous, spirited, lifelong friend Bobby Jensen, who loved Oswego with a passion until the day he died.
Last but certainly not least, thanks to the most wonderful group of writers I know, the Twaddlers of Lake Providence: Pat Morrell, Gerri and Leonard Goodwin, Ken Glinski, Clive Arlington, Don LeBlanc, Laura Parra, Mary Lou Cross, Barbara and Bob Dirr, Diedre Jackson, and Jim Moore. Thank you all.
Black Chokeberry, Aronia melanocarpa (Photinia melanocarpa): A deciduous shrub of the rose family, native to the Great Lakes region. Seemingly phased by nothing, this shrub will tolerate anything thrown at it: swampy ground, dry sandy soil, drought, salt, and pollution. Songbirds, many species of small mammals, and upland game birds enjoy the dark bitter fruit in harsh winter months. This plant is recommended to those who are interested in trying something a little old-fashioned, but still a little different.
—Christopher Lindsey
Founder, hort.net
She reached into the nightstand and counted. Six Snickers, one Twix, five Milky Ways, and two twin packs of Mallo Cups. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in a drawer.
There’s a cooking show in there somewhere, but damn, fourteen won’t be enough for the weekend. I’ll have to go out.
Ellen Varner lay back on the pillow, stretching her legs and arms, catlike. The afternoon sun was behind the tightly closed bedroom blinds. “Stay there,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
Rubbing her eyes, she heard Henry trotting along the front of the bed. She appreciated his patience with her, his willingness to wait for her to wake up before he could go for a walk. He was just the kind of dog Ellen loved, a mix of German shepherd, with that unmistakable head and pointed ears, and hound dog, the lean medium-sized body covered with a strawberry-blond short-haired coat. At three years old, he was all muscle with a lot of puppy energy still in him. She had rescued him last summer; more accurately, he had rescued her. At fifty-two, her twenty-four-year marriage over, Ellen had needed a warm body near hers as she went to sleep and someone to care for when she woke up. Henry fit the bill perfectly.
He sat by the side of the bed now, his dark eyes never leaving hers, his long tail banging the floor, wagging frantically. His intense stare willed her to rise up, put on his leash, and take him outside, now. “All right, Henry, I get it,” she said, stretching again, feeling the warmth of the sheets under her and not wanting to leave the safety of her bed. “I’m up.”
Pulling on the limp navy-blue corduroy slacks she’d worn for a week now, Ellen reached for her leather Keds with the white ankle socks stuffed inside. Her slacks hung simply on her, no bulges anywhere, no stomach to hide with a long sweater, no fanny to cover, no pull at the waist. She moved the belt a notch closer, feeling it settle on her hips. She hadn’t been this thin since her twenties. In fact, she had celebrated the start of the year at 143 pounds, dancing up a 2010 storm with her pals at a rockabilly party on New Year’s Eve in Nashville. That wild prosecco night turned out to be the last one with Nashville friends. Two months later she moved back to Oswego, New York, the small city where she had grown up. Since that move, her life had changed completely.
Bending down, Ellen picked up the dark-green Land’s End cotton twill jacket from the floor and put it on. The jacket was her favorite, the cotton like soft butter after twenty-five years of wash and dry, the diagonal pockets just big enough to keep her hands warm. She loved the gentleness of it, the dependability, the faded sameness, year after year. The jacket was the first thing she had bought when the weather turned cold that first year of marriage in New York. It had carried her right through Thanksgiving when she had to retrieve her heavy wool car coat from the cedar closet. She stopped to take a look at herself as she passed by the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She was looking pretty good from the outside; but her legs and arms sported bruises all the time now, the result of large and small bumps against one thing or another—a doorway, the car fender, the bathtub faucet. She supposed she was anemic. Inside she felt incredibly light—fragile, really. Oh, well. It could be worse. She could have turned into a comfort-food crisis eater. In that case she’d be looking at a two-hundred-pound mess now. Instead, her lifelong pattern of losing her appetite in times of major change was fully engaged. Her throat closed at the sight of food. So it goes.
Moving downstairs to the vestibule Ellen lowered her voice, commanding Henry to stay. He sat instantly, his blond chin up and pointed out at her, giving her full access to his neck so she could attach the metal lobster-claw clasp easily to his blue collar. The leash in place, the front door open in front of her, Ellen hesitated.
“Wait a second, Henry,” she said, “I’ll be right back.” She leaned down to give him a kiss between his eyes, then turned and hurried back up to the bedroom, opening the nightstand drawer. She reached in and put her fingers around a Milky Way bar. Nougat in her pocket, she walked quickly to the front door. She picked up his leash and locked the door, and they started down the front porch steps. “Let’s see what’s going on in our little burg today, Henry,” she said. Walking briskly, they headed north down the hill, toward the lake.
Ruby Bainbridge held the heavy drapes between her fingers, opening them just a crack to see the street. She stepped to the side so that she was in no danger of being seen, nervously jiggling her right foot behind her, a habit she’d had since childhood.
“Stop that movement,” Aunt Eleanor used to say. “People will think you have to go to the bathroom all the time. Or, worse yet, that you have St. Vitus’s Dance. Either way, it’s not good. Please stop.”
Ruby had tried hundreds of times to stop, but it was no use. She was fine with it now. It had taken her five decades, but at fifty-four she really didn’t give a great big fat hairy hoot if anyone liked her nervous jiggle or not. “Live and let live” was her motto now. She craned her neck slightly, peering through the vertical peephole of the drapes to get a better look at Ellen leaving her house across the street.
How does she stand it? Always in and out with that silly dog. Thank you, Lord, that I don’t own one of them.
She watched Ellen and Henry all the way to the corner, the dog anxiously sniffing the street lamp as if it were a wild rabbit, tugging at the leash hard enough to pull Ellen’s arm right out of her shoulder, for heaven’s sake. As they disappeared down the hill, obviously headed for the lake, Ruby sighed and closed the drapes. Not much going on this afternoon. She moved away from the parlor window, making her way to the kitchen at the end of the long hallway. Ruby knew the neighborhood would become increasingly quiet as the warm fall afternoons turned into frigid winter days, her neighbors shuttering their windows and sweeping their front porches of the last of the dried leaves, the summer furniture cleaned and wrapped in plastic for winter storage. In the winter months she’d hardly see anyone on her str
“I know what’s com-ing,” she sing-songed. Reaching past the bright red apple-shaped cookie jar, she turned on the GE radio on the kitchen counter. The sound of big band music filled the kitchen. She loved those sounds, that swing. She never changed the station, keeping the dial right there. She started moving her hips with the rhythm, closing her eyes, feeling the clarinets in her soul.
“I’ll get by-y-y-y-y, as long as I-I-I-I have you-u-u-u-u,” she sang, her arms embracing a pretend partner, her legs enjoying the pull of deep dips as they moved in silky unison, circling, smaller in-between steps perfectly in time together, delicately light on their feet, mesmerizing to other dancers who stopped to watch, envious, charmed by the couple. “Po-ver-ty may come to me-e-e-e, that’s true. But what care I-I-I-I, oh, I’ll get by-y-y-y-y-y, as long as I-I-I-I have you-u-u-u-u-u.”
A small applause as the band brought the number to a close. Ruby held on to the last waist dip then smiled shyly as her dream partner pulled her upright and released her. She reached for the counter to steady herself. The close footwork threw knifelike pains into her ankle.
“Oh, thank you, dah-ling,” she said. She batted her eyelashes furiously, giving them her best Marilyn Monroe pose, waving to the dancers, blowing kisses. “You are simply delightful! I’m off now—see you next time!” Basking in their affection, she moved to the far end of the kitchen, to the long windows overlooking her small backyard. She stood still while her heart slowed down, the sun hot on her face, her upper lip moist from the dancing, her hair a little damp at the temples, the gray and white finger waves slightly frizzy from the exertion. She took a deep breath, exhaled through her mouth slowly, and felt her breathing relax. She watched a plump robin bob for worms, storing up energy for the imminent flight south, and listened, not unhappily, to a noisy blue jay screaming at everything that moved. She calmed down, glad that the gay excitement was now over—and a little embarrassed, although she couldn’t say why exactly. She reached into her pocket for a tissue and felt the Swiss Army knife, cool and strong against her fingertips. She loved that knife. She had carried it with her everywhere since she was eleven years old, since her Girl Scout days. It was an old, trusted friend.
Tucking the tissue into her apron pocket she moved back into the kitchen. “Leg of lamb and Dr. Phil,” she said. “My favorite combination. Get after it, Ruby Bainbridge.”
She went to the hall closet just outside the living room and pulled out the TV table, bringing it back to the eat-in part of the kitchen by the windows. She had a large TV and cable box lodged securely on the built-in shelf that once was the butler’s pantry pass-through. Ruby had moved the TV out of the living room several years ago after Mother died, preferring the coziness of watching TV and eating in that small alcove. Everything she needed was right there for her. She could safely snuggle in, enjoy her meals in peace, and keep an eye on the birds and the TV all at once. She congratulated herself again on her good sense in using the space so wisely.
She slid the legs of the TV table sideways under her overstuffed chair, at an angle giving her room to get in later and pull the table around in front of her. She was proud to have figured out how to put Dr. Phil on a daily “record series” mode, which allowed her to access the show anytime. It had taken her two weeks to figure out that crazy machine, but she hadn’t given up until it was done. She did the same for Oprah. Boy, I love that Oprah, she thought.
The remains of last Sunday’s leg of lamb were tightly wrapped in aluminum foil in the fridge. Ruby loved lamb, hot or cold, and was sorry this would be the last of her leftovers. Still, she had managed six meals out of that small leg, a testimony to her frugality, her willingness to eat half of what she felt like eating. She ran her hands over her hips, smoothing her cotton dress, feeling the smallness of her body. Pride coming before the fall notwithstanding, she was proud as she looked down at her flat stomach, her still-good-looking legs.
Well, why shouldn’t I be proud? I’ve worked hard to keep my figure. Pride isn’t always a bad thing.
She reached for her favorite blue Fiesta dinner plate—an original Fiesta, not one of those new ones they sell at Macy’s. She put a slice of Pepperidge Farm thin sandwich bread in the center of the plate, ready for the small handful of lamb to be spread out evenly, touching all parts of the little slice. It was true. She had never let herself go. It wasn’t so much a matter of pride as it was a point of character. She believed in self-denial, the kind modeled by the nuns she had known as a child. They seemed to want nothing more than a calm demeanor, lovely, clean white fingernails, and pressed black habits. Always in control, always that tense secret-keeper smile on their lips. Ruby had wondered how they could bear the pressure of the headgear they wore, the stiff dimiti starched into the coif, the white band steadily pressing into the forehead, a deep crease etched into the skin by the end of the day, no doubt. She thought they must trap a lot of perspiration in those dimities. Wet, hot skin boxed in under there with no way to relieve the itchy, salty sweat. Yet they always looked serene, as if they’d just come from a sanguine Maundy Thursday midnight vigil. Those nuns were a discipline worth remembering, worth emulating.
It wasn’t easy choosing food as her character builder. She loved food. She thought about it from the minute she woke up until the last forkful of dessert at night. She only allowed herself one forkful, never more. Sort of the way Dolly Parton says she eats, never denying herself anything, but only taking one bite, period. She was no Dolly Parton, which meant Ruby’s bite was pretty big, maybe even obscene. The dessert fork she used was a large sterling silver service fork Mother had left her, the one on the Thanksgiving turkey platter year after year, the one that could carry almost a full helping of dessert, with a little practice. Ruby had lots of practice. She finely honed her ability to pile high the cake, ice cream, and whipped cream on the fork without them slipping off. The trick was to pile high, not wide. Tall and deep.
She looked at the sad cup of vanilla pudding she’d have to eat for dessert tonight. She loved pudding but it took her four days to eat a batch. Hot off the stove, she’d pour the pudding into half-cup ramekins to stretch them out for the week. But this was the fourth day and the pudding had pulled away all around the inside of the ramekin, the top part dried out despite the tightly pulled piece of Saran Wrap. She’d deal with that pudding later. Ruby had a dozen ways to perk up sad food. Disciplining herself to live on $1,800 a month, she knew all the tricks. Reaching into the second shelf, she put her hands on the glass jar of leftover gravy. She dumped the gravy into a white enamel saucepan, put it on the front burner of the electric stove, and turned it to high. In the cupboard she hesitated a minute, unsure if she wanted French-cut green beans or Jolly Green Giant yellow corn. Eeenie, meenie, miney, moe, back and forth with her finger, landing . . . on . . . the . . . corn.
She cleaned the last bits of lamb from the leg and thought briefly that Ellen’s dog would probably love that big bone. She was about to drop it into the garbage can by the sink, then hesitated. She didn’t give a juicy spit for that silly dog, Lord knows, but it might be a good idea to keep the bone for, what was his name? Harold? Henry? Harley? She couldn’t remember, having been close to the dog only once since Ellen had moved in across the street seven months ago. Ruby had to admit she was curious about the reclusive Ellen. She didn’t want her as a friend. She simply felt it was her duty to keep tabs on what went on in the neighborhood. Too many things had changed on West Fifth Street in the past thirty years. Somebody had to keep track. The bone would be her calling card.
Ellen stood on the Utica Street Bridge, looking down on the Oswego River as it rushed out, pouring itself into Lake Ontario. Two bridges joined the east and west sides in this small upstate New York city, one crossing the river on Bridge Street, the other—parallel to it and four blocks over—crossing along Utica Street. Ellen loved this part of downtown and had always parked the car to walk the bridges when she came home to Oswego. Now she could walk them every day if she wanted. After thirty-five years away, she had moved back home after ending her long marriage. It was still too soon to tell if the divorce and the move had been the right decisions, but she was stuck with both now, and that was fine. Nothing really mattered much anymore.
