Return To Little Hills. Janice Macdonald
I really don’t have time to argue. I don’t want to argue, let’s put it that way. I don’t see you often enough to spend time when you are here bickering with you.”
Having established the moral high ground, Viv then went on to complain about the paintwork in her newly finished upstairs bathroom, her neighbor’s obnoxious dog who barked half the night and the ridiculous price of the boneless pork roast she’d bought for tomorrow’s dinner with some friends who probably wouldn’t be impressed, anyway.
As she listened, Edie wondered whether it would seem insufferably self-righteous if she attempted to lend some perspective to her sister’s problems by describing the young girl she’d seen in Sarajevo—all dressed up in high heels and full makeup as she picked her way through the rubble from a recent mortar attack because, war or no war, life goes on. Or the women who sent their children to school during shell fire with the reassurances that they were probably safer at school than at home. Yeah, it would be insufferable, she decided, not to mention hypocritical. You’ve never dwelled endlessly on your own petty problems?
“By the way,” Viv said, “I really am sorry for jumping on you lately. You must think I’m a total bitch. When I’m on a low-carb diet, I swear I get sugar withdrawal. Anyway, look, bottom line is we both have Mom’s best interests at heart.”
“Exactly,” Edie agreed, “Which—”
“I’m sure it isn’t easy for you to be back here, feeling that you’re doing everything wrong, but face it, Eed, that’s reality. You made your choice to go off and lead…your kind of life.”
“But—”
“And I have no problem at all with looking after Mom. I mean, I told Ray, I said I don’t even know why Edie’s coming back, as busy as she is…but look, sweetie, I know you’re concerned. Tell you what, how about we take Mom out to Maple Grove tomorrow and you can see the place for yourself?”
Meanwhile, Edie decided as she hung up the phone, she would have a little talk with Maude when she got back from her visit with Dixie—just the two of them. She might never know or understand Maude the way Viv did, but she could at least try to get to know her a little better.
Tomorrow, she would take Maude to lunch.
PETER’S PHONE RANG during the middle of a parent conference. Since he’d told Betty Jean to hold all calls other than emergencies, his first thought as he excused himself to pick up the receiver was that it was one of the girls. “Your sister,” Betty Jean said. “She insisted that I put her through immediately.”
Peter exhaled. “Yes, Sophia?”
“I’m calling for a progress report.”
He frowned. “On what?”
“The wife search. What else?”
“Oh, that,” Peter said, irritated. “Do you honestly think that I have nothing else… Listen, I’m in a meeting—”
“I just thought you might have given it a little thought.”
“I have,” Peter said without thinking first.
“And?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“A teacher?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“A foreign correspondent.”
“A foreign… Oh, Peter, that’s ridiculous. They’re gone all the time. You read about their lifestyles. How can that possibly work?”
“Not quite sure.” Especially since she’s now declined two invitations, he thought as he hung up on Sophia.
“Anyway, as I was saying, Mrs. Black…Patricia’s academic progress would be enhanced considerably if she attended school more than two days a week. Let’s talk a little about what we can do to ensure she gets up in time to catch the school bus in the mornings. An alarm clock would be an obvious first step…”
Sophia’s second call came just as he was leaving his office to head across campus. “Please forget about the foreign correspondent,” she said. “It would be an enormous mistake. As soon as the girls begin to trust her, she’ll be whisked off to Timbuktu, or somewhere, only to be shot at and God knows what else. Please tell me you weren’t serious.”
EDIE HAD ENVISIONED somewhere a little more celebratory for her getting-reacquainted lunch with Maude, but her mother had insisted on Mrs. Brown’s Burger Bar: pumpkin-colored vinyl booths and anthropomorphic dancing pies painted on the windows. Maude liked Mrs. Brown’s early-bird dinners. Edie glanced at the menu. A little insert offered a free slice of apple, chocolate or cherry pie with any order over six dollars.
“I don’t want anything spicy,” Maude was saying. “What are you having?”
“Salad.” Edie set the menu down and looked at Maude. So far today things had gone quite smoothly. She hadn’t slapped her forehead in exasperation, or sworn or wanted to shake Maude silly. I am becoming a better person, she decided. If not a paragon of saintly virtue, more patient and understanding. Compassionate, even. Earlier, as they had been getting into the car, she’d taken a second look at her mother’s headgear and refrained from asking why Maude had chosen to go out wearing a tea cozy.
And last night, after her mother returned from the visit with Dixie Mueller, Edie had listened with a degree of patience she had no idea she possessed to Maude explain that she only ate eggs on Tuesdays except if it rained and then sometimes she’d have a banana, not because she was hungry, mind you, but because of the potassium, but if you stopped to think about it, she’d lived this long so if she wanted to eat eggs on Wednesdays, too, how could it hurt?
“This was nice, Edie,” Maude had said when just before midnight she’d announced she was ready for bed. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a talk like this.” And actually, Edie thought as she’d drifted off to sleep, it had been kind of nice. Not exactly the heart-to-heart, mother-daughter chat she’d once dreamed about, but peculiarly contenting, anyway. Of course, she’d had a couple of glasses of wine.
“What can I get you ladies?” The waiter, a tall gawky kid who appeared to be about twelve, thirteen max, looked from Edie to Maude, then reeled off a list of specials.
“I didn’t get that,” Maude told him. “Can you read them again?”
“Mom, what difference does it make?” Edie asked. Vivian had already warned her that Maude, when dining out, would eat nothing but fish and chips. “You’re going to have fish and chips, anyway.”
“Where’s the chicken potpie?” Maude had picked up the menu again. “How much is it?”
“We don’t have chicken potpie,” the kid said.
“Chicken potpie,” Maude said. “And a cup of coffee.”
“They don’t have chicken potpie,” Edie told Maude. “Why don’t you just have fish and chips like you always do?”
Maude eyed Edie, a tad suspiciously. “What are you having?”
Edie felt her hand move almost involuntarily to her head. She restrained it. “I’m having salad, Mom. I already told you.”
Maude screwed up her face as if she’d just learned that her daughter was going to dine on stewed yak. “Salad?”
“Salad.”
“I don’t want salad. I’ll have chicken potpie.”
Edie slapped her head. “Mom! Look at me. They don’t have chicken potpie.”
“Don’t shout at me.” Maude raised her eyes to the waiter. “See how my daughter talks to me?”
“Want me to come back in a few minutes?” he said.
“No,”