In Search Of Her Own. Carole Page Gift
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done?” Maude questioned as she set a platter of ham and fried potatoes on the table.
“Yes, I did,” said Victoria. “Did you and Mr. Hewlett have a nice day?”
“Same as usual,” said Maude, sitting down. “Sam fixed a broken shutter out back. I worked on my soap crafts and watched my game shows on TV.”
“Are you retired, Mr. Hew—I mean, Sam?” Victoria asked politely.
“You bet. I worked nearly forty years for Brownlin Utensils on the east side of town. Retired three years ago Since then I done some part-time work—carpentry, manual labor—till my back gave out this spring.”
“He worked in that awful factory, same job all those years,” Maude said bitterly. “He shoulda been a supervisor, a foreman, but no, he set back and let the young fellas snatch up all the promotions.”
Sam cleared his throat irritably. “I was happy doing my job, Maude. I didn’t wanna be no boss of nobody, making decisions about this or that. I liked things fine the way they was.”
“No backbone, that was your trouble,” she snapped. “You got the backbone of a jellyfish.” Maude looked narrowly at Victoria. “You find yourself a man who can stand up for what he wants, not some spineless fella who lets everybody walk all over him.”
“Miss Clarkin ain’t interested in your opinion, Maude,” snapped Sam. “Specially of me.”
There was an uneasy silence until Victoria, grasping for a safe topic of conversation, said, “You mentioned doing soap crafts, Mrs. Hewlett. Just what are they?”
Maude brightened immediately. “Oh, you probably already seen them around the house—in your bathroom and on my knickknack shelves. They’re bars of soap inside crocheted turtles and fish. I’ve made them for years. Sold a lot, too. The novelty shop downtown carries them for me. So does the little boutique up north, near our summer cabin. For years I’ve taken them a supply every time we go up there on vacation, haven’t I, Sam?”
“Sure have. No one makes them things quite like Maude. They’re pretty enough for rich folks’ fancy houses.”
“I’d like to see them,” said Victoria. “Did you do all the paintings in your living room, too?”
Maude’s complexion blanched. She looked away.
“No, our daughter, Julia, did them,” replied Sam quickly. “She was the artist in the family She could make anything look beautiful.”
“She woulda been a famous artist if she’d lived,” muttered Maude. “If that blasted drunk driver hadn’t killed her. It was murder, plain and simple.” She shook her head mournfully. “My beautiful little girl, gone just like that, no warning, nothing.”
“It must have been terrible for you,” murmured Victoria.
“I’ll never get over it, never!” said Maude under her breath. “She had so much promise. She shoulda been the one to live.”
“Didn’t you say her husband was killed in the accident, too?” ventured Victoria.
“The whole family, wiped out in one fatal blow. Killed instantly. They never knew what hit them.”
No, that isn’t true! Victoria wanted to scream out. My son’s alive! The hospital records showed that he survived. But she forced her voice to remain calm as she inquired, “Your grandson died, too?”
“They all died, that’s what I said,” replied Maude, her eyes narrowing. “Sam and I lost everything that mattered to us. It’s been over six months, but it seems like yesterday.”
“It’ll always seem like yesterday,” agreed Sam quietly.
“I blame it on the devil,” declared Maude. “The devil and his devil water!”
“The fella that hit our Julia was soused on whiskey. Don’t even remember what he did.” Sam’s voice cracked. “He walked away from the accident without so much as a scratch.”
“It seems it always happens that way,” observed Victoria, holding her emotions in check. She couldn’t let the Hewletts see how shaken she was by talk of the accident. She poked idly at her potatoes. Somewhere during the course of their conversation, she had lost her appetite.
After dinner, in spite of Maude’s protests, Victoria helped clear the table. As she returned the salt and pepper shakers to the pantry, Victoria spotted a basket of toys on the bottom shelf. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized they were undoubtedly Joshua’s toys. She stooped down and examined them lovingly—miniature race cars, plastic building blocks, action figures and a worn brown teddy bear with a single button eye. Impulsively she picked up one of the little cars and tucked it into her pocket. I just want to hold it and look at it for a while, she told herself. It’s something Joshua played with. I’ll put it back later.
“What’re you doing?” growled Maude. She was suddenly hovering over Victoria, her beefy hands on her enormous hips.
Victoria stood guiltily, her hand covering her pocket. “I just noticed the toys. I suppose they belonged to your grandson.”
Maude promptly shut the pantry door. “They were Joshua’s, all right. I never had the heart to get rid of them.”
Victoria nodded. “I’d feel that way, too,” she said softly. “It must make him seem nearer, having something special that belonged to him”
Maude looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess it does.”
“I felt that way when my mother died this past year,” said Victoria. “I felt better just having a few of her favorite possessions nearby—books, jewelry, photo albums “
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