Marcia Talley: Through the Darkness

I sensed a but coming, and Connie must have sensed it, too, because she pasted on her brightest, most disingenuous smile and waited.

“Your children will be playing here, Emily, don’t forget,” Ruth said, as if ours were the only children who mattered.

My granddaughter Chloe, at six, was in first grade. Jake, just turned three, attended nursery school, but would be joining his baby brother, Tim, at Puddle Ducks each afternoon once the spa opened for good. At the moment, Tim, the baby brother in question, was the center of attention, occupying a gleaming white playpen that had been set up near the French doors leading out to the patio and the Japanese garden beyond. Adorably dressed in a blue and white striped Petit Bateau coverall I’d splurged on at Madeleine’s Boutique on Maryland Avenue, he didn’t seem the least concerned about the elements of feng shui, or Jemima Puddleduck’s lost eggs, or anything else for that matter. He sat contentedly in his playpen, gnawing on a wooden block.

“I’m running the day care center, Aunt Ruth,” Emily said. I half expected her to add and not you , but I’d brought my daughter up with better manners. “And I’m certainly willing to listen to anything you have to say, but you have to realize that it’s too late to change it now!”

“You’re right, of course,” Ruth admitted. “But it’s just so frustrating! If Dante had listened to me in the first place, Puddle Ducks would have been built where the gift shop is now.”

I was about to put in my two cents about conversion plans as recommended by highly paid D.C. architects who were not disciples of the Compass school of feng shui-naturally, they’d given the east side of the building, with its expansive view of the Chesapeake Bay, to the spa’s dining room-but thankfully, Ruth had already moved on.

“We can add a light fixture over there…” She gestured toward the west wall. With a wink at me, she added, “Phyllis can certainly afford it!” Without drawing a breath, she forged on. “And maybe a mobile. Something light and a bit whimsical. I think I know where to get one.”

“Okay, Aunt Ruth.”

Hands on hips, Ruth turned, scrutinizing the room. “You should put the stereo equipment on the northeast wall,” she said, waving her hand in a vague, northerly direction, “and it’d be better if you moved the tables and chairs closer to the east wall,” she said. “Wisdom and education go there.”

“Okay.” Emily, again, being diplomatic.

“And put that Little Red Hen bulletin board on the south wall!” she finished triumphantly.

“Of course,” Emily managed from between clenched teeth.

“I’ll ask Dante about the mobile.” Ruth wandered over to the windows and adjusted the curtains to admit the early afternoon sun in all its glory. My sister had finally run out of steam.

“I wish you luck getting his ear,” Emily said, squinting into the glare, ignoring her aunt’s instructions, at least for the moment. “The ad for the accountant came out in Sunday’s Baltimore Sun . The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Dante’s got interviews scheduled back-to-back until almost eight o’clock tonight.”

“Last time I saw him, Dante was helping Ben fish a chair out of the swimming pool,” I offered helpfully.

Connie’s paintbrush hovered over a bright green radish top. “What? How’d that happen?”

With a sideways glance at Emily, whose bland expression gave no hint of what I suspected was major responsibility for the “accident” to the chair, I said, “Who knows? When one enters Garnelle’s massage therapy room, all brain functions cease.”

Ruth grinned. “Thanks, I’ll check the swimming pool first, then.” She turned on her sensible black heels and started out the door. “A green dragon, Connie,” she called back over her shoulder.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

“A green dragon on that east wall.” She pointed.

Back on her stepladder, Connie rolled her eyes.

“And a white tiger over there. Those children need some guardians.” And then she was gone.

Once Ruth was out of earshot, Connie said, “A tiger? What do you think Beatrix Potter would say if I painted a tiger stalking among the cabbages in Mr. McGregor’s very proper British garden?”

“It never bothered Rousseau,” I commented dryly, dredging up a factoid from an Art History course I’d taken at Oberlin. “Remember his jungle paintings? Rousseau let on that he had firsthand knowledge of the jungle from time spent in the army, but I’m quite sure he never left Paris. He once painted a Native American, headdress and all, fighting off a gorilla. And I remember a painting of monkeys with back-scratchers and a milk bottle.”

While Connie and I nattered on about art, working our way through the decades to Jackson Pollock and Willem DeKooning and wondering how anybody in their right mind could call those splattered canvases works of genius, Tim had tossed the block aside and pulled himself to his feet. He clung to the playpen railing with both hands, making cheerful grunting sounds while his untrained legs wobbled unsteadily beneath him.

I saw the problem at once. Lamby, his well-loved plush toy, lay spread-eagle on the carpet. I retrieved Lamby, handed it back to him. My grandson promptly plopped to his well-padded bottom and began chewing on Lamby’s tail.

Having exhausted the topic of modern art, I concentrated on helping my daughter fold, crush, and stuff boxes and packing material into an oversized trash can. Still worrying about the argument I’d almost overheard, I asked if everything was all right between her and Dante.

“Of course!” she insisted, dismissing my concerns.

“Emily?” I prodded.

She laid a reassuring hand on my arm. “Everything is fine , Mom. We’re just under a lot of pressure right now. Besides, we’re always snapping at each other. It’s just our way.”

If Emily and Dante’s recipe for successful marriage had always included lighthearted bickering, I wouldn’t have known. This was the first time since they’d left college in Pennsylvania that our daughter and her family had lived close enough for Paul and me to play a significant role in their lives. Frankly, bickering or no bickering, I was relishing it.

After a bit, I said, “Thanks for being patient with your aunt. I love Ruth, but sometimes she can be a royal pain in the ass.”

“You noticed? I half expected her to whip out a deck of tarot cards and offer to tell our fortunes.”

I chuckled. “Do you think marrying Hutch will settle her down any?” After three years, Ruth and her live-in boyfriend, a prominent Annapolis attorney, had set a date for the following November.

“I don’t know, Mom, but taking on a moniker like Mrs. Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson the Third would certainly slow me down!”

“Speaking of husbands,” Connie said as she stepped down from her stepladder, wiping her paintbrush with a dry cloth, “I promised Dennis I’d meet him for a late lunch.”

“Call the New York Times !” I said.

Connie finished cleaning her brushes, slipped them into a wooden box, and began closing up her paints. “They’ve made an arrest in the Bailey homicide, Hannah. Finally the good lieutenant will get an afternoon off.”

“Until the next case comes along.”

“Let’s pray for a crime-free weekend, then,” Connie said, shutting the lid on her paint box. “There are a lot of things that need doing on the farm.”

“As soon as we get the spa on its feet, I’ll come help,” I promised, feeling a genuine pang of guilt for neglecting Connie, who was more than a sister-in-law; she was my best friend.

“How are you at roofing barns?” Connie teased.