Day 111
(This is Part IV of the story The Scent of Lilacs. Parts I, II and III were posted on Days 108, 109 and 110.)
I don’t mind so much days on the porch but when it’s hot, I drink more lemonade which, well, makes me need to use the commode more. I try to not think about it, or drink too much, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. Those days I miss my legs the most – what I wouldn’t give to open the porch’s screened door and walk through the cool quiet of the house to the bathroom. If I ever had a chance to time myself I bet I could get from my chair, to the bathroom and be back on the porch in well under 2 minutes – even with taking the time to run my fingers across the cool black-green marble top of the table in the hall. Two minutes! Yes, if I ever walk again I’ll surely time myself, just to see. And, again, maybe I’ll never have the chance. Who knew that one awful day “The Accident” would happen? Well, it did and now it would take at least 20 minutes for me to complete my task. It took some doing but I had finally convinced Aunt Grace that I could do it all by myself. It was humiliating enough having her help me, but on the days Aunt Grace would be gone, Aunt Grace had the Widow Spurtle come sit with me and help. That was worse than humiliating. (Why didn’t people call Aunt Grace – the Widow Schempp? Maybe they did when we weren’t around? I often wondered how Uncle Lester got through life being Lester Schempp? I’m glad that’s not my name.)
It’s not that I didn’t like the Widow Spurtle – it’s just that she smelled funny; kind of a combination of mustiness and old fruit. She was kindly enough, but quiet, and most of the time she sat, asleep, in the rocker across from me on the porch with her knitting in her lap – snoring or mumbling from time to time. She was always knitting the same thing – I guess she didn’t make much progress because she was usually asleep. Once she had cried out, “Feed the chickens yerself!” I nearly jumped out of my skin, she startled me so! But it was pretty amusing. I giggled wondering what she’d been dreamin’ about and who she was talkin’ to. I knew she wasn’t talkin’ to me – Aunt Grace didn’t have chickens no more.
The air smelled funny. It tickled my nose and my memory. I’d smelled it before, but was having a hard time placing it.
I haven’t seen the Widow Spurtle for a while. Aunt Grace said she’d been put out that I no longer needed her assistance. Too bad. I didn’t know much about her – if she had family or other people in her life other than me and Aunt Grace and in a way when I thought of that old lady, I felt kind of melty inside, sad-like. But I still didn’t want her help or her watching over me, though I mostly watched over her. She had a tiny little face and always wore a bonnet. (Who wore bonnets these days?) She reminded me of an old lady turtle – which would always bring a smile to my lips … Old Widow Spurtle – the Turtle. Aunt Grace would be mortified if she ever heard me say that; I knew Aunt Hattie would be, too. (“No need to be disrespectful.” they would both reprimand had they the chance. They had more in common than they knew.) The only one I ever said anything to about Widow Spurtle was Mr. Bruce and he just smiled that sunshine smile. There were two good things about the Widow Spurtle coming over though … one, she did teach me how to crochet (I already knew how to knit) and two, I so disliked having to be watched over, I taught myself how to go in and out of the house and to use the bathroom without any help. I practiced a lot, because, as I said, she was usually asleep.
So, Aunt Grace finally let me stay alone at the house. At first it was only while she’d be gone to pick wild raspberries down the road from all those overgrown tangles; and then she had Mrs. DeLaroux’s daughter, Angela, come by a few times on her way home from school – which really wasn’t good or helpful. She’s a few years older than me and wears fancy clothes as they are quite rich (after all, they do have that electric washing machine). How Mrs. DeLaroux could be so nice to hire Hattie and then have a daughter like Angela. (Mrs. DeLaroux was even so nice as to give Miss Hattie extra things she’d “over-bought” at the store. Once Aunt Hattie told me it was a canned ham! Imagine – a canned ham as an “extra” and then to give it away! A whole ham – for just one person! Miss Hattie ate like a queen for a long time!) Yes, Mrs. DeLaroux was a real charming woman but Angela was as snooty as could be. I’ve often thought how her name certainly did not fit her. For someone with a name that meant “angel” she surely was not angelic. She’d stop twenty feet from the porch, say she wasn’t coming any closer in fear that she’d ruin her dress or something, and there was no way she was helping me with my “toilette” (she made it sound all fancy), anyway. So, she’d turn around, swinging her book belt and her blonde curls and be on her way home – beaming with the knowledge that her mother, who obviously had the wool pulled over her eyes, would coo over her selfless daughter who stopped to help a poor crippled girl. I begged Aunt Grace not to have her return, but it didn’t make any difference. After the third visit Angela no longer stopped. I’d yell out to her if I glimpsed her as she passed sometimes, on her way home, but she would not so much as even mumble a meager greeting. I didn’t blame her. What was in it for her? I certainly didn’t want her help … but how difficult was it to just say hello?
(Watch for Part V.)