A Life of Bright Ideas Read online

  “It’s so plain,” Mrs. Jamison complained.

  “You could have crystal doohickeys glued on the ribbon to make it look more bridal if you wanted to,” Winnalee said.

  “I don’t know …,” Mrs. Jamison said. “It just doesn’t look like something a bride—”

  “Oh, but wait!” Winnalee flipped the paper over and started sketching the back of the dress. “Check this out,” she said, as if the dress were already made in her mind, even though I knew she was making this all up as she went along.

  She swirled her pencil into who knew what, but something big and bunched like a bouquet at the middle of the bride’s back. Then she drew wide strands of ribbons hanging down the length of the dress and spilling over a slight train.

  “Chiffon would be beautiful for this dress,” I said. “Very flowy.” And Winnalee added, “Yeah, and if you let your hair hang loose, curl it maybe, you could wear a crown of flowers, with those … those … little sprigs of tiny white flowers … what’s that shit called?”

  “Baby’s breath,” I said, cringing because she’d cursed in front of customers.

  “Yeah, baby’s breath,” Winnalee said. “It would beat having to wear one of those geeky veils, wouldn’t it?”

  Cindy was grinning from ear to ear, but her mother was not. “No veil?”

  “You could have a narrow band of tulle hanging from the back of the crown,” I suggested.

  “Look, Mrs. Jamison,” Winnalee said. “If you want a wedding disaster on your hands, stuff Cindy in a dress that looks like a wedding cake. She’d make the whole wedding a living hell for everybody. Trust me, I know her type. I’m one of them.”

  I stiffened. You don’t say things like that to customers you’re trying to please!

  “I would, too,” said Cindy, her chin jutting as she tried to look like a true rebel, though I doubted she was anything more than a spoiled whiner.

  “But what about the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Mrs. Jamison asked.

  “Same style,” Winnalee said. “But maybe midi-length. And just a plain bow at the back of their dresses. All in some far-out material, maybe tie-dyed. Pale, soft colors, I suppose, because it is still a wedding. Wait …”

  Winnalee dug in her pouch and pulled out a handful of pastels, some used down to stubs. She tossed her hair to her back and started drafting a less dramatic version of Cindy’s dress. Then she used her pastels to color it, blending pinks and turquoises and yellows into a muted tie-dyed pattern. Cindy watched over her shoulder, muttering excited little oooohs.

  “Winnalee,” I said quietly, “I don’t know how we’d find material just like that, or even similar. Flower prints and Swiss dots are what’s in.”

  Winnalee finished the dress, handed the pad to Cindy, and said, “Then we’ll dye it ourselves.”

  I’d never dyed anything, but for a pair of old kitchen curtains that I was determined to take from a yellowed white to bright pink. When I was through with them, they were the color of spawning salmon with jaundice.

  Everything happened in a rush then. Cindy insisted that I sew the dresses—even though Mrs. Jamison pointed out that Hazel had sewn her wedding dress and she trusted her. Winnalee jumped right in, then, like she was doing me a favor, saying, “Button here’s been sewing since she was old enough to sit up. She’ll nail these dresses.” Winnalee got up and ran to the fitting room and came back with the bridesmaid’s dress we just brought in. “Look at this,” she said, lifting the plastic. “Look at the … the … well, look how good it looks. Better than store-bought.”

  “But have you sewn a bridal gown before?” Mrs. Jamison asked.

  “What does that matter?” Winnalee asked. “A dress is a dress, no matter what color the material is.”

  So the Jamisons placed their orders—Mrs. Jamison looking only slightly sick at this point—and set up a time for Cindy and her three bridesmaids to come in to be measured. “I’m having Hazel sew my dress,” Mrs. Jamison said, and out the door they went.

  “There,” Winnalee said. “You just got your first wedding dress order!” She sat back down and took a slow slug of her soda, looking pleased with herself.

  “Winnalee, I can’t dye fabric! And that glob on the back of the bride’s dress … what is that supposed to be, anyway? A clump of bows? A bouquet of flowers? How can I make something when I don’t even know what it is?”

  Winnalee yawned. “Relax, Button. I’ll help you dye the material if you can’t find anything close. I’ve tie-dyed T-shirts before. How hard can it be?”

  “Oh my God,” I groaned.

  “As for the thingy on the back of the dress, well, you’re on your own there.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  BRIGHT IDEA #18: If the kid sitting behind you got a bruised knee because somebody pushed her down on the playground, you might feel bad, even if you’re not the one who did the pushing.

  In so many ways, I envied Winnalee. She was liberated, and free from the burden of trying not to upset or offend anyone. She didn’t obsess about things the way I did—tugging her shirts to hide her boobs, biting her cheek to keep from saying things that might upset someone. She wasn’t afraid of new challenges, and didn’t worry about if she was good enough. She’d driven to New York and attended Woodstock all by herself, and she was brave enough to go braless in public. But me? I had trouble taking off my bra just to sleep, and I still hadn’t undressed in front of Winnalee. Nor had I found the courage to go to the Purple Haze, even though Winnalee was starting to get hurt feelings because I was blowing her off every time she asked.

  I lay awake much of the night trying to figure out how I’d construct the wedding dress Winnalee sketched for Cindy. In the dead of night, with the room pitch dark and void of any sound but the soft puffs of Winnalee’s breath, I could see Ma clearly. Not the face that had been softened by Freeda’s rough touch, but her face as it was when I was small. Two worry gouges carved between her eyebrows, lips whitened with perpetual disapproval. That’s the face I saw when I closed my eyes to try to sleep, warning me not to screw up this project.

  It was Saturday morning, so I hiked over to Aunt Verdella’s while the grass was still wet with dew, to help her load her things for the Community Sale, and to get Boohoo. “Hey, Evy,” Boohoo said. “Can we stay here until Cap’n Kangaroo’s over?”

  I loved Boohoo in the morning when he just woke up. When his body and voice were still drowsy and he was squishy to hug. “Sure,” I told him. “If you’ll go with me to Porter and be a good boy all day.”

  “What do we gotta go there for?” he asked, as I nudged him out of the way so I could slip a box of afghans onto the bed of Uncle Rudy’s truck.

  “Fabric,” I said, and Boohoo scrinched his nose. Aunt Verdella ha-ha’d and added, “Ain’t he the cutest little thing when he makes that face?” He was, but he wasn’t the cutest little thing when you got him in a fabric store.

  “Can we go somewhere good afterwards?” he asked, and I promised him we could go to McDonald’s afterward, if he was good while I shopped.

  I cleaned off the breakfast table where Uncle Rudy and Aunt Verdella’s plates, and Boohoo’s half-filled bowl of Quisp were still sitting, and I did the dishes while Boohoo watched TV. He wouldn’t leave until the show ended, even if after the commercial all Cap’n was going to do was say goodbye.

  The Trix commercial was on when the phone rang, and Boohoo was laughing because, for whatever reason, he loved the Trix bunny. I picked it up.

  “Button, is that you?”

  “Yes?” I said, as I tugged the phone chord as far as it would go to get away from the blaring TV, in the hopes I’d hear the voice enough to recognize it.

  “It’s Ada,” she said.

  Tommy’s mom sounded upset, and instantly my stomach tightened, thinking maybe something had happened to Uncle Rudy or Tommy while they were haying. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Well, Mrs. Bishop just called here—I’m at work. Max and her are in Ironwood, M
ichigan, for her uncle’s funeral, and Marls just called her because she didn’t know what to do. She’s got some bleeding, and she can’t find Brody. I wasn’t thinking until after I dialed, that, of course, Verdella would be at the sale—which explains why I couldn’t reach anybody else I tried, either. I sure am glad I got you, though. Button, could you go over to the Bishops’ and bring that poor girl to the hospital? It’s far too early for that baby to come now. I tried to talk Marls into calling an ambulance, but she doesn’t have health insurance and was afraid her in-laws would get upset if she rang up that expense.”

  “Yes, of course I will,” I said. I was pacing, and caught sight of Boohoo, already coming to life and hopping in place, yarn twirling down over him.

  “Thank you, honey. Let me know, okay?”

  I hung up the phone. “Boohoo, shut the TV off. Now. Hurry.”

  “What’s the matter, Evy?”

  I didn’t know what to say to him—or what to do with him. Certainly I couldn’t bring him with me. “I have to run somebody to the hospital and—”

  “Is somebody sick?” he asked, his yarn going limp against the floor.

  “Yes. Hurry now.”

  “Do I gotta go, too? I don’t like hospitals, I don’t think.”

  “No, Winnalee will watch you,” I said, hoping it was true.

  “Goody. I like Winnalee.”

  “You want me to what? Watch Boohoo? What am I going to do with a little kid?” Winnalee mumbled when I told her.

  “Just watch him.”

  Winnalee propped on her elbows and forced her sleepy eyes open. “I never babysat before, Button.”

  I blinked. I’d babysat the Thompson kids all through high school, and helped take care of Boohoo since his birth. Every girl I knew babysat. “There’s nothing to it,” I said as I dug through the rubble for my purse. “Just make sure he doesn’t start anything on fire, break anything, or get run over. Past that, just feed him if he gets hungry. Winnalee, I have to hurry. Marls could lose her baby. I’ve got to get her into town.”

  “Lose her baby? Who?”

  Winnalee must have been too groggy to absorb the opening part of the story, so I repeated it quickly.

  “Okay,” she said. She sat up. “I hope she’s all right. And I hope I don’t do anything stupid.”

  “You say that like you don’t have any control over what you do,” I said as I slipped on my sandals.

  “Well lots of times, I don’t!”

  I warned Boohoo to be good, and flew out the door.

  Marls was in tears when I got there—but to my relief, blood wasn’t oozing down her legs and pooling to the floor. I helped her to the car, telling her over and over again that everything would be okay, and hoping it was the truth.

  I didn’t know if I should drive slow—Tanner Road, where the Bishops lived, being heaved and rough, and the Rambler didn’t have a smooth ride on the best of roads—or fast, so I could get her there more quickly. So I drove in-between. I was glad when we got on Highway 8 and I could speed up. “Are you in pain?” I asked Marls more than once, because her whimpering rose and fell like someone having pangs, but each time she told me (or shook her head) no.

  “Here’s the Smithys,” I said. “So we’ve only got sixteen miles to go now.” We both cocked our heads toward the farm. “He said he was going to help hay,” Marls said, as we scoped the field. Uncle Rudy was on the green baler, and Tommy hunched over a hay bale. Uncle Rudy’s and Tommy’s trucks were the only vehicles in the driveway.

  I glanced over at Marls, then watched the Smithys’ farm fade in my rearview mirror. Brody should be with her, rolled in my mind, and no doubt, in hers.

  Marls was almost giddy with relief when the hospital came into view. “Thank you so much for bringing me,” she said. “Brody can give you some money for gas later.”

  I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Don’t give that another thought. It’s what anyone would do for their neighbor.”

  I left Marls in the car and hurried inside to tell the lady at the desk the situation. Then I followed two nurses and a wheelchair out. They helped Marls out of the car, and I shut the door behind her and started walking alongside them. Marls looked up, her face blotchy, her gray eyes almost colorless underneath the tears. “You don’t have to stay,” she said, but I told her I would. I didn’t want her there feeling left alone when she was so scared. I reached down and touched her hair while she answered questions at the desk, then took a seat when they wheeled her into the examining room.

  After what seemed forever, I saw a gurney leave the examining room, Marls lying on her back. I was relieved to see the mound of her belly under the green blanket, even though I knew the baby still had to be there, since births were supposed to take a long time. After they hauled her away, I waited, then went up to the desk to ask what was happening. “They’ve taken Mrs. Bishop to a room and will keep her overnight for observations. After they get her settled, you can see her.”

  I paged through magazines while I waited, but I only looked at the pictures. I was too worried about Marls—and how Winnalee was doing with Boohoo—to actually read.

  Another half an hour passed before the lady at the desk told me I could go up. She gave me Marls’s room number and told me where I could find the elevator. There was a nurse inside her room, the door partially shut, so I waited.

  Marls looked as pale as the sheets, but she looked more peaceful, too. “They said I’m not dilated at least, and they gave me something to help me not go into labor.”

  I stood by her bed, looking down, and my chest swelled with pity for her. I was practically a stranger, yet at the moment, I was all she had.

  “They think everything’s going to be okay,” she said, as she gently massaged her belly.

  “Good,” I said.

  “I’m so tired now.”

  “I could sit with you while you sleep,” I offered.

  “No, you go. I’ve taken enough of your time. But could you please hand me the phone first?”

  I was in the hall, contemplating if I should really leave, when Marls placed a collect call. Her voice floated out a childish, scared whisper as she said, “Mom?”

  Dad was in the yard shoving the lawn mower over grass so long that it had to be bending under the machine, when I slowed to turn down Peters Road. He glanced up when he heard my Rambler and his arm came up to give me a slow, half-mast wave. Still, that was better than what greeted me when I pulled into my drive.

  Winnalee’s screams reached me before she did, rushing into my window as if they were looking for a place to hide. She came flying around the side of the house, arms bouncing, hair wild. I rammed the car into park and yanked the key. “Winnalee?” I shouted.

  Boohoo appeared from the backyard then, wearing the devil’s grin and holding an upside-down broom poised in the air.

  Winnalee raced to the driveway and wedged herself between me and the car, her scream so shrill that it pinched my eardrums.

  “Boohoo!” I shouted, as he reached us, dancing side to side like a boxer as he sought a better aim at Winnalee.

  I reached out and grabbed the broom as it was coming down, and yanked it from his arm. “What are you doing?” I shouted, my palm stinging. Boohoo took off like the Tasmanian Devil, laughing as he ran. I stared at Winnalee in disbelief. “Why were you letting him chase you with a broom?”

  “Because it seemed like a hell of a lot better idea than letting him hit me with it!” She held up her arm to show me two strips of red welts. One of them was already tinged with blue.

  “Boohoo, get back here right now!” I shouted.

  He didn’t stop, so I dropped the broom and chased after him. I snagged his wrist and held him as I delivered every threat I could think of. He wouldn’t watch cartoons for three Saturdays! He couldn’t wear his Spider-Man cape for a month! He wouldn’t get candy for the whole rest of the summer!

  I expected Boohoo to plead his case, beg for forgiveness, or cry when I plunked him on the
steps. Instead he just smiled up at me and said, “Can Winnalee watch me next time you guys are gone, Evy? She’s fun!”

  Winnalee looked down at his sweaty head as she thumped up the porch steps on bare feet. “I’m never watching you again, you little shit.”

  I told Boohoo if he got off the steps he’d get a spanking—I’d never spanked him in his life—then followed Winnalee inside. “Please don’t talk to him like that,” I said. “We don’t swear at him.”

  “Well I don’t know how in the hell you can help it,” she huffed.

  I wanted to swear at him, and her, when I saw the mess inside, though. Drawing paper ripped to confetti was scattered over the floor and furniture, and even the swag lamp was tangled with yarn. “You think this is bad, you should see the kitchen,” Winnalee said.

  I snapped a loose crayon under my sandal as I headed there, then stood in the doorway, my hand over my mouth. Cocoa Puffs dotted the floor, and the table was covered by at least two-thirds of a loaf of peanut-butter-smeared broken bread. A fly was busy drinking Kool-Aid from a capsized cup, and his cousin was perched on the still-opened jelly jar. “Man, Winnalee.”

  “I know, I know. I tried to make him clean up the mess before you got home, but when I handed him the broom, he started swinging it at me!”

  Winnalee threw her hands into the air and slapped them down on her thighs. “Bright Idea number ninety-nine point five,” she said. “Never ask Winnalee Malone to watch a kid, because she’ll only mess things up.” She turned and headed out of the room, her thumps soon sounding above my head.

  I screwed the lids back on the jars and headed to the sink for a washcloth. “Hi, Tommy. Evy? Can I get up now?” Boohoo yelled from the steps.

  “No!” I shouted, cereal crunching under my feet as I sidestepped to sop up the Kool-Aid still dripping off the table. I stared down at the floor, then slapped the washcloth in the sink even if the table was still a mess, and headed outside for the broom. I almost ran into Tommy, who was coming up the steps, carrying it. “You looking for this?” I yanked the broom from him.