“Sweetie, what is this?”she asked, looking at the money he was passing to her.
“I want to give you this to get me a suitcase,” Oscar said.
“A suitcase?Is Bad Apple taking you guys on a trip or something?”
His eyes were twinkling when he looked at her.“We have spring break coming up next month, and I'm hoping, once I write to Uncle Jay, that he will come to get me to spend the week with you guys.I need the suitcase to carry my stuff so I don't show up looking raggedy,” he said, giving a small smile.
One, she'd never really seen the kid smile or laugh, which caught her off guard.She accepted the money, nodding her head in agreement.In the kitchen, Bad Apple sat up, waiting for Stephen to return home, holding the phone in his hand just in case anything went awry with both boys being out of the house.
“I would never have taken you to be the mother hen type,” Helen said.
“They are teenagers, and teenagers are biologically wired to be dumb as hell,” he said.“I have to stay on the ready when they are not in this house.”
Bad Apple looked back at her.“Oscar is ready to live with you guys.He's coming out of his shell and is trying to make furniture.I caught him the other day with a broom, sitting between two chairs pretending to row a canoe.Why is he pretending to row a canoe, Helen?”
“Jay likes to canoe,” she replied.
“Ah,” he said.“Spring break is next month.Do you think Jay will want him for a week?”
“Don't know, and I am going to be in St.Paul,” she said.“Don't know how that will work out, Jay working, me not being home.”
“Hmmp,” he mumbled, looking out the window and seeing headlights arriving in the yard.
Helen saw his body physically relax.“If it is meant to work out, it will, Apple.If Oscar's home is with us, all of it will fall into place.Goodnight.”
“Rest well,” he said, moving from the window when he heard keys in the back door.
The following morning, not feeling completely rested, Helen loaded up, waving farewell and aiming the nose for Wisconsin Dells on the I-90.Her mind went over the past two weeks, enjoying the visit with the in-laws, sharing new recipes with her mother-in-law, and planning her wedding.
“My mother will need to come to my wedding,” she said, nearly choking on the disdain of the woman's soon-to-be poorly planned overt attempts to steal the thunder from the bride.“I can plan for that as well.”
She continued driving, nearing Eau Clair, grateful Belial didn't make an appearance at their home due to scheduling conflicts but stating he would come another time.This made her happy, and she maintained a straight face when Mustang said Belial wouldn't be coming.Her husband was disappointed, but she was not.She hummed her way along, arriving in the Twin Cities right at lunchtime, switching to four-wheel drive to navigate the snow-covered ground, and pulling into a morose landscape of hibernating trees and a drab brown home.The garage doors were brown, the roofing was brown, and the home had large windows, which were trimmed in brown.
“Breath deep, Helen,” she said softly, cutting the engine.She climbed the two flights of stairs which had been cleared of snow and covered in salt, she assumed, in honor of her arrival.
The office bag hung from her shoulder, and she dragged a mid-sized suitcase behind her.She reached the front door, and her gloved hand pressed the bell, waiting for Sour Grapes to arrive and let her into the den of silent horrors.An icy shiver ran down her spine as the shadow of a person arrived at the door, opening it partially.
Sour Grapes stood in the entryway, dressed as if she were headed out for an afternoon meeting with the Ladies' Auxiliary Club.She didn't offer a smile but merely appeared to be bored with Helen's arrival.Her head tilted as she looked around her for luggage.
“Is that all you have for three months?”
“I have another in the car,” she said.
“Your F150?”
“No, A Ford Explorer,” she said.“Is there room in the garage for my vehicle?”
“There is a second garage down the path where I park my outside work transportation,” she said.“Do come in.We are preparing for lunch.”
“We?”
“Bella,” Sour Grapes said as an older woman arrived, wearing a starched white apron over a black dress and offering a nod, “is preparing a light fare for lunch.Dinner shall be Wellingtons with an endive salad.I do hope you are a meat-eater.”
“I am,” Helen said.
“Bella, please take...what is your name, dear?I am not spending three months calling you Cranberry and you calling me Sour,” she said, looking down her Patrician nose.
“Helen.”
