The Christmas Clock and A Song For My Mother - Kat Martin Page 0,14
much longer she could keep her grandson from figuring out that something was seriously wrong with her.
Doris spotted Lottie making her way up the front porch steps to her house. For the longest time, the older woman just stood there looking confused. Doris realized the door must be locked and Teddy wasn't home yet to unlock the door. She set her paintbrush next to the little ceramic pitcher she was painting, took off her apron, and hurried out the door.
“I can't seem to find my key,” Lottie said as Doris walked up.
“Here, give me your purse.” Doris dug the key out of a little zippered compartment and handed it to her friend.
It broke her heart to see how fast Lottie's condition was deteriorating. And it worried her. Good Lord, what was going to happen to Teddy? A couple of times, the thought had occurred to her that she and Floyd might be able to take him but Floyd was past sixty, hardly the age to become a father again and Doris had never had children. She had no idea what to do with a boy Teddy's age. It wouldn't be fair to any of them.
Lottie went into the house and Doris returned to her painting. With Floyd busy out in his shop for most of the day, the house seemed so quiet. She thought again of Teddy but shuddered to think of the disruption a boy his age would cause. As much as she wished she could help, she simply wasn't up to it.
She heard the faint buzz of Floyd's saw and remembered when they were first married, how the two of them had worked together down at the cleaners. They had loved each other back then, perhaps not in the way two teenagers would, not with all the passion and turmoil, but they were best friends and they enjoyed each other's company. She wondered what had happened to make it end.
For an instant, she thought of taking him a glass of tea. Floyd liked it with lots of ice and plenty of sugar. It could get pretty hot in the shop, even with the window air conditioner running. But he would be busy sawing and nailing, building his little wooden birdhouses, and he probably wouldn't even notice she was there. She'd end up just setting the glass down and leaving.
With a sigh, she picked up her paintbrush and fixed her attention on the little ceramic pitcher. She had a nice spot for it on one of the shelves over by the window. Of course, Floyd wouldn't notice.
Doris told herself she didn't care.
It was Saturday afternoon, the end of the first week of September. The time had come. She couldn't put it off any longer.
Today, Syl was going to tell Joe.
Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved yellow top, she checked her appearance in the mirror, fluffed her tawny hair a little, and added some lipstick. Taking a long, deep breath, she headed for her car. Mary had told her Joe lived in a little house a few blocks away from his shop. In the phone book, he was listed at 225 Jefferson Street. Mary said he usually walked to work but he probably wouldn't be working on Saturday afternoon.
Syl had considered calling him, trying to set a time, but she was afraid if she phoned, he wouldn't agree to see her. Instead, she was taking the chance she would catch him off guard and he would let her in.
She found the house, which was built in the 1930s or 1940s like most of the houses downtown, and pulled up to the curb in front. The yard had been recently mowed and the shrubs all neatly trimmed. She wasn't sure he would have been so meticulous in his younger days, but then, this was a different Joe from the one she had known.
She walked up beneath the covered porch and rapped lightly on the screen door. She could hear movement inside the house, so she knew someone was home. A few minutes later, Joe pulled open the door and looked out through the screen.
He saw her but he didn't say a word.
“I was hoping you would be here,” she said. “I came by to ... to talk to you.”
Through the screen, his blue eyes looked icy cold. “Eight years and now you want to talk.”
“I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But as you said, it's been eight years.”