Enright Family Collection (132 page)

The tractor! Yes, of course! The tractor! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?

“Because I foolishly thought that digging a few hundred square feet of dirt would be a walk in the park.” She said aloud. “Come on, Spam. There is a better way ...”

Dragging the shovel—which now weighed close to thirty or forty pounds, she was certain of it—she returned to the barn, Spam grunting a protest at having had her little siesta in the sun disturbed. Georgia walked around first one, then the other tractor, then hoisted herself onto the seat of the smaller of the two.

Hope had driven it all the time. Laura had driven it, too. Why couldn’t she?

First, of course, she would have to figure out how to turn it on.

She tried to recall what Laura had done the day she
had started up the equipment. Something with this switch here ...

The rattle and roar of the engine startled her, and she drew her hand back as quickly as if she had touched a hot wire. The seat wobbled under her rear end and the whole machine sort of shook.

Spam bolted for the door.

Georgia placed her hands on the steering wheel and braced herself against its vibrations. Turning the stiff wheel first to the left, then to the right, she leaned over and watched the movement of the big front tire as it responded to the wheel in her hands.

I think I could drive this thing,
she nodded.
And Laura did say that I could use whatever was here
...

She studied the pedals near the platform beneath her feet.
That
must be the fuel pedal, and
that
must be the brake. Which means
this
would be the clutch.

Testing each of the foot pedals tentatively with her sneakered feet, she repeated aloud, “I can drive this thing.”

The large first floor of the barn held little more than the tractors. She looked over her shoulder. A small plow was attached to the back of the tractor, but other than that, there seemed to be little that could get in her way. She depressed the clutch, which was slightly stiff, then moved the gearshift back and forth, confirming the gears. From neutral to drive. Did this thing have different speeds? She leaned closer to inspect. The small letters at the base of the stick shift spelled out, “first, second, third, fourth, reverse.”

Just like that ancient Mercedes sports car that Mom used to have, she mused.

If I could drive that, I can drive this.

She downshifted into first gear, and stepped on the gas.

“Holy mother!” she yelled as the tractor lurched forward toward the back wall of the barn. She hit the brake, bringing the machine to a sharp stop.

Well, it had been a while since she had driven that car ...

She pulled forward a few more feet, more slowly this time, then stopped it again. Start, then stop. Start, then stop. She made a slow arc around the inside of the barn. Once. Twice. Three times, then pulled the tractor back to where it had been.

What, she wondered, controlled the plow?

She tested this lever and that until she found the one that lowered and raised the plow blades.

She began to whistle again, the theme song from
Oklahoma!
coming to mind.

“Tomorrow I will plow up that little bit of field, Spam.” Georgia announced as she hopped down from the tractor, “just like Hope used to do.”

Confident that she was up to the task, and knowing somehow that Hope would have been proud, Georgia turned off the light and headed to the house to sketch out her garden plan. Matt Bishop could stay in Shawsburg. She wouldn’t need his help.

Matt had rescheduled his Wednesday afternoon appointments so that he’d be able to leave the clinic no later than one. Unfortunately, a Pekinese with skin allergies arrived—unannounced—at twelve-forty-five, and kept him till close to one-thirty.

“The best laid plans,” he muttered to Artie as he arrived home and stripped for a quick shower. The
peke had shed loose fur all over him, and he needed to be rid of it.

Finishing in record time, he pulled on a short sleeved olive green shirt and a pair of jeans, and whistling for Artie—who’d been lounging on the sofa, moving only when he heard Matt’s footsteps drawing near—headed off for Riverview.

He still had no idea of what he was going to say to Delia, but he figured it was time. He wasn’t even certain of how he felt about her anymore.

On the one hand, he had been touched almost to tears that Delia had taken the prized piece of Ally’s birthday cake not for herself, but for Charity. That small act had spoken volumes to Matt of Delia’s kindness, of the generosity of her spirit.

That she had taken it upon herself to hire a private duty nurse to care for his mother,
that
was something else entirely.

He had deliberately not mentioned it to Laura, though he wasn’t exactly sure why he had avoided doing so. Maybe because Delia was, after all, Laura’s birth mother, she might feel obligated to defend her, to explain on her behalf. Matt wanted to hear it from Delia herself why she felt she was entitled to make such a decision. If Delia had conferred with Laura first, Laura may have chosen not to discuss it with him for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that she might have been afraid he’d tell where Delia could put her money.

Or, on the other hand, maybe Laura was feeling a little bit torn between the two women. It was, he concluded, a complicated situation.

The visitors lot was almost filled when Matt arrived
at Riverview at three-twenty. Even so, there was no way to have missed the Mercedes sedan. It stuck out from between a Honda and a Subaru station wagon like a red rose in a vase full of white carnations. He parked the truck, gave a verbal reminder to Artie about minding his manners, and went into the nursing home.

The hall leading to the dayroom was quiet, and the soles of his Nikes squeaked softly on the tile floor. As he approached the room, the sound of a woman’s voice became audible. He paused in the doorway and took a look around. There were twenty or thirty residents gathered around the chair where Delia sat, her glasses perched on her nose, her legs, in tailored navy blue slacks, crossed at the knee. Her voice was clear and animated. Matt took a step inside and listened as she read from the hardcover book which she held open with both hands:

“‘The bucket that had hung from the frayed rope was gone, the rope cut cleanly. She leaned over the edge of the old well, wondering if the wooden bucket had fallen down, down, down past the old stone walls.’”

“When I was a little boy, we had a well on our farm,” an elderly man sitting to Delia’s left interrupted her.

“So did we,” another nodded.

“I lived on a farm, once.” It was Charity’s voice. “And we had a well. My father covered it up when my sister Faith fell in and drowned.”

Matt’s chest constricted. That his mother would remember that! Charity could not have been more
than six or seven at the time her older sister had died. It had been years since she had talked about Faith.

“The water in our well was very cold,” the old man continued as if he had not heard. “It was sweet to drink on a hot summer day ...”

“Faith had yellow hair,” Matt heard his mother say. “The yellowest hair I ever saw. My mother used to braid it in two fat plaits. On Sundays she let us wear ribbons in our braids, me and my sister Faith and my sister Hope.”

“Faith, Hope and Charity,” an old woman seated next to Charity said in the kind of loud voice used by people who are themselves hard of hearing. “That was in the Bible.”

“Now, do you want to chatter,” a gentleman wearing a blue cardigan sweater and a slouched straw hat stood up, “or do you want the book lady to read a little more?”

“Oh, read more, please!”

Delia shifted slightly in the chair, gave everyone a few seconds to reposition themselves, then continued on with her reading.

Matt sat down on a chair just inside the door, studying the back of Delia’s head. Several times she had raised a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed it slightly, as if to rub away some stiffness, but she kept reading until the clock in the hallway chimed four bells. She had been interrupted several more times by members of her geriatric audience when their memories had been jogged by something she read, but she never seemed to mind. She simply waited patiently until they were ready for her to continue. Then she would read some more until
someone else had a flash from the past and spoke up to share it.

When the bell rang, Delia finished the sentence she was reading and closed her book, saying, “And that’s all till next week.”

Several in the group groaned their displeasure that reading time was over for the day, but most simply nodded. The aides stood and prompted everyone to “Thank Mrs. Enright.”

“Thank you, book lady,” several said as they passed Delia on their way out of the room.

Charity wheeled herself past Matt without looking at him.

He stood and leaned against the wall, debating whether or not to speak with Delia now, or if perhaps he should wait for her by her car.

He had taken too long to decide. Delia turned toward the door unexpectedly. If she was surprised to see him, she hid it well.

“Matthew,” she greeted him with a even smile.

“Mrs. Enright.” He nodded to her.

She stopped to speak to one of the aides, then gathered a light jacket from the back of her chair. Folding the jacket over her arm, she handed the book to the aide and said, “Why not keep this here until next week?”

“Do you mind if I finish it between now and then?”

“Not at all,” Delia smiled, “as long as you don’t give away the ending.”

“I promise.” Looking pleased, the aide hugged the book to her chest.

“Well, Matthew,” Delia looked up at him when she reached the door, “are you going my way?”

He nodded. “I suppose I am.”

They walked together through the lobby, Delia waving at this one or that, employees and residents, all with the same friendly greeting. As they neared her car, she said, “I’m guessing that this was not a coincidence, that you just happened to stop by today ...”

“I knew you would be here.”

“Then I take it you have something to say to me.” Her voice was soft, not challenging, not apologizing.

“First, I want to thank you for the kindness you have shown to my mother ...”

Delia smiled wryly, as if mildly amused.

“The birthday cake, the balloons ...,” he said.

Delia waved a hand, as if it was all inconsequential. “Ally was upset that her grandmother would not be there this year. She said she always gave her the piece of her birthday cake that had her name on it. I thought she should still have that.”

“Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

Again, that amused smile.

“But ...?” she prompted him.

“But I think you went too far when you hired a private nurse without consulting me or Laura.” His jaw set hard and his eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming you didn’t tell Laura ...”

“No. I didn’t discuss it with Laura.”

“How did you get them to do that, bring in a nurse without getting Laura’s permission?”

“Laura’s permission wasn’t needed. The doctor agreed that it was absolutely necessary.”

“Who does she think is paying for it?”

“There’s a special fund that’s been established at
Riverview to provide extra services to residents who need them. Others benefit as well, not just your mother.”

“Let me guess who funds this ‘fund.’”

“I believe the donors are anonymous.” Delia averted her eyes.

“Look, Delia, this is very generous of you, and I think I understand why you did it, but all the same ...”

“Do you?” She looked up at him in a way that suggested that perhaps he didn’t understand at all. “And what do you think you understand?”

“I’m guessing it might help to help ease your guilt.”

“My
guilt?”
Delia’s eyes flashed, but her voice remained steady. “And what guilt might that be?”

“Giving away Laura.” His quiet words faltered. He hadn’t wanted to be so blunt, wished she hadn’t made him say it.

Delia shook her head slightly. “You’ll have to do better than that, Matt. I stopped feeling guilty the day I met Laura in the library in Bishop’s Cove.”

He stared at her, clearly not understanding.

“You feel
guilty
when you feel you’ve done wrong. As soon as I met Laura, as soon as I saw what a lovely person she was, I knew that I could leave behind whatever guilt I had felt. She had obviously been brought up well, with a great deal of love. I knew then that I had done the right thing. Of course, until I saw her, I didn’t know that, all those years ...”

“You don’t regret having given her up?”

“Ah,
regret
is something else entirely. I believe we
were speaking of
guilt.”
Delia smiled slightly. “It took me years to understand, but once I accepted the fact that nothing I could have done or said would have made any difference, it was a lot easier to forgive myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The decision to give Laura up for adoption had been made by my parents, Matthew. I had just turned seventeen. They took it upon themselves to arrange for my baby to be immediately turned over to her adoptive parents upon leaving the hospital. I was not told until it was time for me to leave, and I waited for them to bring my baby to me ...”

Delia’s bottom lip trembled almost imperceptibly.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard himself say.

“It took me a very long time to sort through it all. For years I hated my parents for what they did to me.”

“How could you forgive someone for doing that?”

“Forgiveness is yet another issue.” She smiled wryly. “Let’s just say that in time I came to understand what motivated them to do what they did. It was the nineteen-sixties, and things were very different back then. I was the only child of a prominent minister of a prestigious church in a wealthy community. My parents reacted in the only way they knew—to make the whole episode go away and then pretend that it had never happened.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it, that Laura married a minister?” Matt said.