Muriel Jensen - Man With A Mission

Erica gave her a dark look but repeated dutifully, “We can hate things, but not people.”

“So?”

“So, I take it back,” Erica conceded ungraciously, “but if she messes with my stuff again, even if I don’t hate her, I’ll…” She hesitated. Jackie also had rules against violence or threats of violence. “I’ll let Frankie Morton take all her candy!” Frankie Morton was the bully.

Rachel ran upstairs in tears.

Jackie grinned over Erica’s head at Glory. “Want to stay for dinner? Promises to be eventful.”

Glory acknowledged the joke with a nod. “Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend.”

“It’s a guy friend,” Erica informed Jackie. “They met at the library. But tonight he’s taking her to dinner.”

Jackie was happy to hear that. Glory worked so hard that she seldom had time for dating. “Anyone we know?”

“I don’t think so,” Glory replied, gathering up her things off one of the kitchen chairs. “His name’s Jimmy Elliott. He works for Mr. Whitcomb. He’s a fireman and fixes furnaces when he’s off.”

“Oh.” The mention of Hank’s name darkened her already precarious mood.

Glory, purse over her shoulder and books in her arms, asked worriedly, “Is that bad?”

“Of course not.” Jackie walked her to the door. “He and I just don’t get along very well.”

“You and Jimmy Elliott?”

“Hank Whitcomb and I. He’s just moved his office into City Hall.”

“Oh. That’s a relief. I really like Jimmy.”

“Well, have a wonderful time.”

Glory stopped in the doorway. “One more thing,” she said, handing Jackie a folded piece of paper, her tone sympathetic. “This is from Erica’s teacher. I didn’t read it, but Erica says Mrs. Powell picks on her because she’s having trouble paying attention.”

A note from school completed the destruction of Jackie’s flimsy attempt at a good mood.

She went back into the kitchen to ask Erica about it, but Rachel had just returned with her ceramic savings bank shaped like a castle with a blond princess in the tower. She knelt on a chair at the table, her eyes and the tip of her nose red from crying. “How much was the pillowcase, Mom?” she asked.

Jackie sat down opposite her, trying to remember. It had been part of the package with two sheets and the bedcover. Erica had been feeling blue, she remembered, and objecting to the childish decor of her room, done when she’d been about five. New bedclothes had seemed the simplest and quickest solution.

“It was on sale,” Erica said, pulling silverware out of the drawer to set the table, her nightly chore. “The whole set was eighty dollars. I remember ’cause I thought it would be too much. But the lady said it was half price.”

Encouraged by Erica’s assistance, Jackie asked, “Then how much would you say one pillowcase would be?”

Erica came to the table and sat, the silverware in hand. “The bedspread would probably be half, don’t you think?” she asked, her mood lightening fractionally.

“That sounds reasonable.”

“So…” Erica closed her eyes, concentrating. “That leaves twenty dollars, and the sheets would probably be three-fourths of that. So…that leaves five dollars for the pillowcases.”

Rachel pulled the rubber stopper out of the bottom of her bank and reached in with little fingers to withdraw bills. Change tinkled to the tabletop. She counted four singles, then asked Erica, “Four quarters in a dollar, right?”

“It was two pillowcases for five dollars.” Erica fell against the back of her chair in disgust. “You only wrecked one.”

The disgust with her sister was a habit, Jackie knew. But this burgeoning willingness to be fair gave her hope after all.

“What’s half of five?” Rachel asked, her expression also brightening somewhat.

“Two-fifty,” Jackie replied. “Two dollars and two quarters.”

Rachel handed over the money. “I’m sorry.”

Erica snatched it from her. “Just leave my stuff alone.”

“And?” Jackie encouraged.

“And I won’t let Frankie Morton steal your candy.”

Jackie’s hope wavered. “And?” she repeated.

Erica looked at her perplexed, then asked uncertainly, “Thank you?”

“Yes!” Success at last. How often did a mother get to repair an argument and provide a lesson in math and morals all at the same time? “I’m proud of both of you. You fulfilled your responsibilities,” she praised, hugging Rachel, “and you…” Erica tried to evade her embrace, but Jackie caught her and wrapped her in a fierce hug. “You were generous in victory and didn’t gloat.”

As Erica hugged back, the baby gave a strong kick.

Erica straightened away from her, brown eyes wide with awe. “It kicked us!” she said, putting a hand with purple fingernails to the spot.

“Probably just wanted in on the hug.”

Rachel ran over to touch also, the three of them standing motionless and silent, waiting for another sign of life. It came with another strong kick. They looked up to share a smile.

Without warning, Erica’s smile evaporated and she said with a sigh, “Pretty soon there’ll be someone else to mess with my stuff.”

Jackie refused to let Erica’s change of mood dissolve her thrill of success over the pillowcase incident. She made a salad while microwaving spaghetti sauce from the freezer and boiling noodles, and chatted happily over dinner about nothing in particular.

While Rachel related a long and complicated story involving the lizard in the terrarium in her classroom and its shed tail, which someone had put in Mrs. Ferguson’s purse, Erica caught Jackie’s eye and smiled hesitantly.

Jackie smiled back, sure that before she knew it, Erica would be a teenager and they’d be at loggerheads all the time.

Or she could get lucky. Some mothers did. Evelyn, Jackie’s secretary, had three daughters in their early teens, and they seemed to love not only each other, but their mother as well. With her own lively and interesting but contentious girls, Jackie envied Evelyn her family’s closeness.

But Jackie was never lucky. She was blessed in many ways, but never lucky. Her victories were all hard-won.

Erica helped Jackie clear the table while Rachel took her bath.

“Are you gonna yell about the note?” Erica lined up three cups next to a stack of plates while Jackie sorted silverware into the dishwasher’s basket. She went back to the table without waiting for an answer.

“Difficulty concentrating isn’t exactly delinquent or disruptive behavior,” Jackie replied, dropping the last spoon in. She didn’t look up but felt Erica’s glance of surprise. “But it’s not very good for grades. Are you thinking about Daddy? It takes a long time to get over the death of someone you love.”

Mrs. Powell’s note had admitted as much but expressed concern that Erica’s inability to concentrate seemed to be worsening rather than improving.

Erica put the butter and the fresh Parmesan in the refrigerator and went back to the table to collect their placemats and take them to the back porch to shake them out.

She returned and set them on the table. “I used to at first, but I don’t much anymore.” She came back and stood beside Jackie, leaning an elbow on the counter. “I mean, he kind of liked us, I guess, but he didn’t really seem to miss us when he was gone, then it seemed like he was always anxious to be gone again after he came home. That’s kind of weird for a dad, isn’t it?”

“He loved you girls very much.” Jackie kept working, afraid that if she stopped and made the discussion too important, Erica would withdraw. “Grandpa Bourgeois never showed Daddy much affection when he was little. The only time he spent with him was to show him around the mill and to teach him how the company worked. Some people have to be shown how to give love, and no one ever did that for him.”