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- A bump in the road bounced
Mother's chin off her chest and opened her eyes. She grimaced
at the light thrown by my elderly Nissan station wagon.
"Good morning," I said.
"Umph," she replied.
When
she seemed alert enough, I said, "Tell me again. Why are
we doing this?"
She sighed. "You know Sylvia
planned Alfie's retirement party months ago. I couldn't very
well let her down."
I downshifted for a curve.
"That part I understand."
For an early start, ordinarily Mother would have stayed overnight
with Rip and me. The party meant I had to be at Mother's at 5:30
a.m., drive to Bryn Mawr to pick up her friend Winifred "Iffy"
Bigelow, then hurry along to the Civic
Center so Iffy could do an entry in the Philadelphia
Flower Show. Apparently competition goes on all week.
"What I'd really like to know
is why your friend Iffy offered us maintenance passes."
"Because I don't drive, and
I was sure you'd love to go."
I shook my head. "No, Mom.
. ."
"I beg your pardon, you practically
jumped at the chance."
I wagged my head. "What I
actually said was, `If you need me to drive, I'll take you.'"
Mother stiffened. "Well, I'm
terribly sorry to put you out. I thought you'd be delighted to
avoid the crowds."
I spread my hand in a mollifying
stop signal. "Yes. Yes, you're absolutely right. I hate
seeing the flower show an inch at a time. But what I'm trying
to find out here is exactly why we were offered not one but two
maintenance passes. People who belong there have trouble getting
them. Why did this `Iffy' person offer them to you?"
"What do you mean, why?"
"Why? W-H-Y. Why?"
"Her car is in the shop."
I braked a little hard for a red
light. "Let me put this another way. Who the hell is Iffy
Bigelow?"
Mother blinked. "She came
to the funeral." I understood her to mean my father's funeral
since it was the only one we had attended together in the last
decade.
"Mom, nobody said more than
a sentence to us that day. Sometimes less."
"You'll remember," she
told me confidently. She recalled details with ease; and since
she considered me to be the new-improved product of Cynthia and
Donald Struve, naturally I would retain whatever she had and
more. "Iffy Bigelow," she prompted. "We were in
high school together."
Surely I wasn't expected to remember
that! I stretched to make some connection, if only to finish
the conversation.
"Is her husband named Arthur,
by any chance?" A few years back I took an investment course
from a dry stick named Arthur Bigelow, until I caught on that
you needed money to make money. Discerning my frustration, Arthur
had invited me for coffee and suggested a couple ways to start
a college fund for the kids. I thanked him, and we parted company.
Nice enough guy, but stiff as starch.
"That's right." Mother
gloated.
I tempered my astonishment. "Small
world," I said, "but I still don't remember Iffy."
"You will," Mother assured
me. "You will."
While my car coughed itself out
in the driveway of the Bigelow's hulking brick Tudor, I squinted
at the two women silhouetted by the front door light. Mother's
friend had to be the short lump with the hat, but all I recognized
was the set of her shoulders and the way her purse hung from
her fist. She was loaded for bear.
"Oh, good," Mother remarked.
"I thought we might have to pick up Julia."
"Julia who?"
"Iffy's niece. We'll be looking
after the girl while Iffy's busy with her entries."
Before I could press for more,
Mother began relocating to the back seat, leaving the amenities
to me. I rolled my eyes and climbed out into the chilled March
air.
Iffy Bigelow shouted, "You're
late," with a voice that could singe paint.
I glanced at my watch. Five fifty-five
a.m. According to Mother's schedule, we were early. When I got
close enough to speak normally, I tried to correct the injustice.
"We're okay by me. Should
we have synchronized watches?"
"Don't get flip with me, young
woman." Mrs. Bigelow ignored my outstretched hand, so I
swung it toward the younger woman cowering behind her.
"Ginger Struve Barnes,"
I said, maintaining my friendly expression. Not really the "girl"
mother described, like me Iffy's niece was at least thirty, yet
her ingenuous expression spoke of a sheltered life.
"Julia Stone," she mumbled,
hesitantly accepting my handshake. Little puffs of breath condensed
and dispersed around us.
I willed a little extra kindness
onto my own face; adults just don't look that uncomplicated without
a reason. Lord knows there were complications and undertones
written all over her aunt.
Winifred Bigelow tapped a foot,
and Julia jumped to retrieve a cardboard box from the stoop.
"Julia, give that to her,"
Iffy snapped, efficiently insulting Julia and reducing me to
a flunky with one succinct phrase.
I accepted the carton with a sympathetic
smile.
Meanwhile, Iffy collected a bulky
potted plant off the step. It's leaves were a fistful of splayed
green belts. From the center rose a tall stalk sporting a pompon
of orange trumpets.
"It's
a clivia," Iffy announced protectively, adding, "in
perfect condition," as she cringed away from her niece.
Julia clutched her coat closed
at the throat; and we all paraded toward Mother, who wiggled
her fingers hello through the rear window.
"Julia! Open that back door,"
Iffy barked.
I practiced projecting saintly
patience as I slid the open carton of arrangement equipment and
carefully wrapped plant materials into the rear of the car.
Julia
leaned close. "I'm just out of the hospital," she confided
with pride. "My psychiatrist said I was ready for an outing."
My eyes widened, and my smile went
stiff. Clinical depression? Paranoia? Schizophrenia? You can't
help wondering, but you don't dare ask.
"Congratulations," I
said, hanging onto that smile.
We each climbed into the Nissan
thinking our own thoughts.
"No expressways," commanded
Mrs. Winifred Bigelow.
I risked a questioning glance.
No wink, no joke. She actually wanted a whistle stop tour of
the Main Line.
This was developing into quite
a morning.
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