Delia Parr - Day By Day

Barbara got to her feet. “And a potty stop. Sit still. I’ll get some cloths.” While she went to the kitchen to retrieve the box of premoistened, disposable cloths that had become a new staple in her life, John and Russell blocked the two possible escape routes. The children apparently were far more interested in getting ready for the puppet show than they were in avoiding a cleanup because when Barbara returned, they were all in their seats and offered little protest when she started an assembly line.

After washing one pair of hands and a face, Barbara passed the child to Madge who provided escort to the powder room behind the kitchen. John took the next child upstairs to the main bathroom. Then, while John and Madge kept their little charges occupied in the living room, as much to protect the antiques as to keep the children from going back to the table for one more bite of pizza, Judy and Russell took the remaining two children for a potty break.

Barbara tossed the last dirtied cloth into one of the pizza boxes, got a large trash bag from the kitchen and cleared the mess from the table, including the plastic tablecloth, in a matter of minutes. “There’s a lot to be said for going modern,” she murmured and stored the trash bag outside the back door. She returned to the dining room, smoothed a lace tablecloth back into place and set the pair of antique Hull candlesticks in the center.

She paused to run her fingertips along the stem of one of the candlesticks, the first of the thirty-four pieces John had given her over the years for their wedding anniversaries. She kept them all displayed behind beveled glass in an old oak cabinet she had helped her father refinish, first stripping away layers and layers of white paint and cleaning tiny specks of paint in each groove in the heavily carved wood with toothbrushes and toothpicks.

Glancing at the cabinet, she smiled. So many memories, outside and inside. Memories of her father, teaching her patience and sharing with her his love for antiques as they worked. Memories of her married life captured with each piece of Hull resting on glass shelves. The small Hull lamp she had gotten their first anniversary for “lighting up his life with joy.” The vases she had used to hold the flowers John had given to her for different anniversaries and later, when Rick and Steve had been born.

“Steve.”

She choked out his name. Reminded once again of her loss and the breaking news from the police, she fought the swell of grief ever ready to crash over her heart and inflame still-healing wounds. She turned away from the table. Toward the sound of little frogs who had apparently invaded her living room. Toward laughter. Toward the future instead of the past. Toward life filled with more joys than sorrows.

John came back into the dining room and stood beside her. “Russell and Madge are ready to take the children to the puppet show now. It’s only a few blocks to the park, so they’re going to walk. They’d need two cars, anyway, just to accommodate the four car seats. It’s probably best if they leave by the back door.”

Barbara nodded and studied the man she had loved all her life. His golden-brown eyes no longer sparkled with the joy of life and his ash-brown hair was flecked with more gray highlights now than blond. She had not seen the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes for months now, and his shoulders drooped beneath the weight of the cross he was carrying, too.

She moistened her lips, searching in vain for the words to have him turn to her instead of his work for comfort. “Will you stay here with me? What if the reporters come?” she asked. Even though the telephones were still disconnected, she was surprised their pizza party had not been interrupted by knocks at the door, and she did not relish being home alone if and when the media barrage began.

“Carl Landon has taken care of the reporters. As soon as I hung up from you, I called him. He scheduled a press conference at his office for five o’clock which should have kept them satisfied. Besides, if any of the reporters decide to come to the door, I don’t think they’ll get past Rob and Stuart.”

She managed half a smile. Carl was a good friend as well as their lawyer, and he had taken on the role of being their spokesperson within hours of John’s call after Steve’s murder. Their neighbors, Rob and Stuart, bless their hearts, had proven to be as tough and protective as Secret Service agents guarding the president. When they were called to duty, no one got past them to get to the front door.

He kissed her cheek. “Keep the telephones unplugged and use your cell phone if you need to call me. I’ll be at the office. I had two appointments for tonight that I couldn’t cancel. I’ll leave through the back door, too. The walk will do me good.”

“Do you have to leave? Tonight?”

“Judy said she was going to do your hair for you, so you won’t be alone. It’ll do you good to have some time for lady talk. I won’t be late. I should be home by nine-thirty,” he promised before leaving her.

Nine-thirty. After the girls had been tucked into bed.

She tried, but found it hard to swallow the lump in her throat. Bedtime rituals, from reading stories, saying nighttime prayers and getting that last drink of water, had always been John’s alone time with their boys when they were little. He had resumed the ritual with Jessie and Melanie when Steve used to bring them for an overnight visit, whether it was the night before opening remarks or closing arguments in a big case or an occasional weekend when he had to go out of town.

John had avoided the ritual ever since Steve’s death when the girls had come to live with them. Instead, he had wrapped himself deep inside his grief, protected by evening business appointments at his office in Whitman Commons—evening appointments he had abandoned years ago. She did not know how long he would continue to grieve alone and avoid bedtime with the twins, and she yearned to see him kneeling at the side of the bed with the girls once again.

She toyed with the edge of the lace tablecloth and watched him lead the parade of guests past the door and through the kitchen to the back door. When the door finally closed, filling the house with suffocating silence, she flinched and dropped her gaze, feeling so very, very alone.

“I’ve got everything with me. Are you in the mood to be pampered a little?”

Startled, she looked up and saw Judy standing in the doorway holding a large, canvas bag.

Judy smiled and held up her bag. “Tools of the trade. Everything I need to cut and color your hair. I brought them with me when I left the Towers. Madge had called there and left a message with Penny so I’d know to come here instead of Mario’s. I stopped at the salon and got the hair dye. I looked up your color. Just in case,” she added. “Madge thought it was a good idea.”

Barbara ran her fingers through her hair and cringed. “I must look a sight to have everyone so concerned about my appearance. To be honest, I meant to call for an appointment. I just haven’t had the time or the…interest. I hate to be such a bother,” she insisted, although she would have liked nothing better than to have her hair done. “You’ve already had a long day.”

“It seems like every day is a long day.” Judy sighed. “I’m also getting used to sitting down to watch a little television at night and falling asleep before the second commercial. I can’t remember the last time I saw a show from beginning to end or had enough energy to stay awake long enough to dry the clothes I’d tossed into the washer.” She laughed and shook her head. “I’d forgotten how many clothes a young child can go through in a few days. Look, I completely understand. If you’re too tired right now, or you’d rather have Ann do your hair, just say so, and I’ll pack up.”