"WHERE'S MAMA? Is she here?"
The woman who stood on her porch would never see sixty
again, Lucy Nan Pilgrim thought. Then she smiled. This was
one of Ellis's pranks. Her friend had teased her about
advertising a room to rent in yesterday's paper. "No
telling what kind of loonies you'll attract," she'd warned.
"I'm looking for my mama." The woman spoke again, this
time in a tiny, childlike voice almost plaintive in its
urgency.
Lucy stepped closer, keeping a firm grip on the doorknob.
There was no one about except for a car at the stop sign
on the corner. She watched as it moved on. "I'm afraid
she's not here," she said softly.
"Where is she?"
"I'm sorry. I don't know." Lucy smiled. The poor woman was
clearly distraught. Now a lone tear began a start-and-stop
path down her rose-tinged cheek. "I believe you have the
wrong house," Lucy said.
"No, I don't!" The stranger straightened, grasping the
strap of her pocketbook in one hand while smoothing the
collar of her blue cotton dress with the other. "This is
my house — Mama's house. She's here. I know she's here!"
She looked past Lucy and frowned, her gaze taking in the
grandfather clock in the corner, the Windsor chair across
from it. Both had come from Lucy's grandmother, to her
mother, to her. "Mama!" she hollered again, and pushed
past her to stand looking about with such a frantic
expression, Lucy began to fear for her own safety. The
woman's boldness had taken her by surprise and she wasn't
prepared to deal with her.
"Mama, I'm home!"
"No, wait...don't go back there!" Too late. Her desperate
visitor had already started down the hallway that led to
the back of the house. Now she turned and smiled. "Why,
I'll bet she's in the kitchen — in the kitchen with
Martha."
Oh, Lordy! Why is this happening to me? And who in tar-
nation is Martha? The woman seemed harmless enough and
looked to be at least seventy, a good fifteen years older
than Lucy, but she was obviously delusional. And what if
she had a knife or something in that huge pocketbook she
carried?
Since the stranger seemed to have reverted to her
childhood, maybe she should use the maternal approach,
Lucy thought.
"Why don't we sit down and have a glass of lemonade while
I see if I can find her?" she called out sweetly. She was
sure she still had that can of frozen concentrate stuck
back somewhere in the freezer.
But the visitor stood transfixed in the kitchen doorway,
still smoothing the collar of her dress. Although her
clothing seemed to be of good quality, the woman's dress
was wrinkled and the front spotted with stains, but her
hair looked as if she'd made a recent visit to a beauty
parlor and still smelled faintly of apricot shampoo. Now
and then she fingered the two large rings she wore on her
left hand, slipping them off and on. One was set with a
glassy red stone about the size of a marble. The other was
green and rectangular. Both looked fake.
"The big table's gone," she said. "Where's the big table?
Where's Martha?" Stepping forward, she reached out to
touch the back of an oak-stained captain's chair, one of
six Lucy had bought at an estate sale. "This isn't my
chair," she whimpered. "Mine has a pretty pillow on it."
Lucy Nan Pilgrim took a deep breath and tried not to sigh
out loud. She wouldn't have been a bit surprised if the
three bears returned from their woodsy walk at any moment.
"You look tired," she said. "And I'll bet you're thirsty,
too. This chair might not be the same as yours, but I
think you'll find it comfortable. Let's sit and rest for a
minute, have something cold to drink."
She was relieved when the woman accepted the offered
chair, plopping her bulging purse on the floor at her
feet. "Do you have any cookies?" she asked. "I had
breakfast last night, and again this morning, but I would
like a cookie. Martha keeps them in the pantry — in a
bunny jar."
"A bunny jar?"
She giggled, holding a frail hand over her mouth. "Not a
real bunny! It just looks like one. And I'd like two,
please, if they're molasses."
The best she could do was peanut butter — the kind with a
chocolate kiss in the middle. Lucy baked them for her
grandson, Teddy, and hid them in the freezer from his
sugar-free mother. It was a delicious secret the two of
them shared, and Lucy took a certain wicked pleasure out
of putting at least one thing over on her rigid daughter-
in-law.
Lucy watched as the woman carefully removed the chocolates
from her cookies and set them aside before nibbling the
edges as daintily as any kitten. She waited until the
childlike stranger was on her second glass of lemonade
before making a move for the phone.
Her visitor took a bite of chocolate, then popped the
whole thing into her mouth. "You're not leaving me? Don't
go!" She licked her fingers between words. "I'm not. No,
of course I won't." Oddly touched, Lucy returned to sit
beside her. "I just thought I might call and try to find
your mother." She felt as if she were speaking to five-
year-old Teddy, assuring him she would be sleeping all
night in the room next to his. "You are looking for your
mother, aren't you?"
The woman drained the last of her lemonade and crunched a
piece of ice. "She's probably at The Thursdays," she said,
glancing about. "Martha will look after me."
"The Thursdays?" How did this stranger know about what was
probably the oldest social organization for women in
Stone's Throw, South Carolina? Her own grandmother had
been a member; her mother, too. Lucy, who'd considered the
whole idea a lot of tommyrot, had tried to decline the
invitation when her time came — Roger had been a colicky
infant at the time, just too sickly to leave with a
sitter; she'd tut-tutted in an oh-so-disappointed voice.
But The Thursday Morning Literary Society (which now met
on Monday afternoons) wouldn't take no for an answer. Lucy
had been a member for thirty years and the reluctant
secretary for ten of them.
"Your mother was — is a Thursday?" Lucy asked, and
received a nod in answer.
"A Thursday, yes. I knew she wasn't in California! Martha
should be here now. I want Martha!"
Oh, please, don't cry! Lucy patted the woman's hand. "I
know," she said, although of course she didn't know. And
she had no idea what California had to do with it. "Tell
me, what's your mother's name?"
This was met with a frown. "Her name? Why, her name's
Mama."
"But she must have another name. What does your daddy call
her?"
Now she began to pleat, then smooth, the collar of her
dress. "I don't remember," she said finally. "My name's
Lucy. What's yours?"
"Shirley." This time there was no hesitation.
"Shirley. That's a pretty name. Shirley who? Can you tell
me your last name?"
The woman stood, pushing back her chair. "I'd like to rest
now. I think I'll go to my room. I want to see my
dollhouse. Papa Zeke made it for me, you know."
Papa Zeke! This couldn't be happening! "Papa Zeke sounds
nice," Lucy said, trying to remain unruffled. "What's he
like?"
"White hair. He has white hair." The woman frowned as she
shoved a strand of her own silver-streaked locks from her
face. "I don't remember.... Oh, he gives me jelly beans!
We count them." She smiled at Lucy. "I can count to a
hundred."
"You can? That's wonderful! Can you count for me?" Lucy
eyed the telephone on the other side of the kitchen. If
she could just stall her, maybe —
"I'm tired. I don't want to count now." Shirley, or
whatever her name was, was out the kitchen door and
halfway down the hallway before Lucy could catch up with
her.
"Will you show me your room?" Lucy asked, following her up
the stairs. She was surprised that someone as old as
Shirley could move that fast, and guessed where they were
going before they reached the top of the stairs. She was
right. The woman led her to the purple room at the front,
the one that had belonged to Lucy's daughter. Julie had
always loved purple and Lucy hadn't bothered to redecorate
even after her daughter moved out after college.
"I'm afraid the dollhouse isn't here," she said as they
stood in the doorway.
"Where is it?"
"It's...well, it's being painted." Lucy smiled. "Just like
new. Won't that be nice?"
"What color?"
Lucy Nan didn't know. Her friend Ellis had shown her the
dollhouse when she redecorated it for her granddaughter's
fourth birthday, but for the life of her, Lucy couldn't
remember the color. "The same," she said finally.
Shirley seemed to accept this, just as she accepted as her
own the purple room with the flea-market furniture Lucy
had collected piece by piece. Now, sitting on the side of
the bed, she untied her shoes and slipped them off,
letting them drop to the floor. The gray leather oxfords
were sadly in need of cleaning and her hose had ladders
wide enough to climb. Probably tracked that sticky whitish
mud all over the house, Lucy thought, and she had been too
overwhelmed to notice.
"Tell Martha I want my blanket," she said, falling back
against the pillow.
Bossy old soul, whoever she is, Lucy thought. She took a
flower-sprigged throw from the window seat and gently
tucked it around her guest. The woman's eyes were closed
and her breathing deep and even. As Lucy stood looking
down at her, she seemed to smile in her sleep.
Satisfied, finally, that she could safely leave her there,
Lucy tiptoed from the room, paused for a couple of deep
breaths, and made a beeline for the telephone in the
hallway.
"ELLIS? THANK HEAVENS I caught you! You'll never believe
who's asleep in Julie's old room."
"Look here, Lucy Nan, you know good and well I'm expecting
close to a hundred people here for that drop-in tomorrow
night. This had better be good!"
Lucy was glad Ellis couldn't see her expression. She had
almost forgotten her friend was hosting a bash for her
husband's nephew and his fiancée, and that she, Lucy Nan
Pilgrim, of unsound mind and runaway mouth, had promised
to make six dozen cheese straws.
"What was your cousin's name — the one who disappeared?"
she asked.
"Who?" Ellis gave one of her impatient little
snorts. "What on earth are you talking about, Lucy Nan?"
"You know — that little girl — the one they think was
kidnapped or drowned or something back before we were
born. Her family lived in this house."
"You mean poor little Florence?"
"Yeah, that's the one! Didn't she just up and disappear or
something when she was about five?"
"Wandered out of the yard one day — never did find her.
They looked everywhere — even dragged the river. Everybody
always got teary when they talked about poor little
Florence. Why?"
"I think she's back." Lucy spoke in a whisper, looking
over her shoulder.
"What?"
"I said, I think she's back. Came here this afternoon
looking for her mother. Said she wanted to see the
dollhouse Papa Zeke made for her. Ellis, you're the only
person I know who called her grandfather Papa Zeke."
"Until now," Ellis said, and paused. "This isn't one of
your rotten little jokes, is it, Lucy Nan? Look, I told
you I wasn't the one who recommended you as social
chairman of the garden club this year — get over it!"
"If I were any more serious I'd be crying," Lucy told her.
"And what am I supposed to do with her? She could wake up
at any minute." Cradling the cordless receiver, Lucy
padded quietly into the unoccupied room across the hall
and pulled the door shut behind her.
"Don't ask me! I have my hands full as it is."
"Some help you are! She's your relative."
"Maybe. I mean, how do we know? What else did she say?"
Ellis asked.
"She said her mother was a Thursday and asked for somebody
named Martha. I thought she was going to cry."
"Martha? You're kidding!"
"Do I seem amused?" Lucy glanced out the window to see if
just by chance anyone had come looking for the stranger
sleeping across the hall. They hadn't. "Just who is this
Martha?" she said.
"If I were Catholic, I'd cross myself," Ellis said. "Don't
you remember Marty? Cooked for just about everybody in our
family. I couldn't say Martha, so I always called her
Marty. Lord, Mama said she wouldn't have known a tureen
from a teapot when she first married if Martha hadn't
taken her under her wing."
Lucy could hear her friend opening and shutting drawers,
clanking silverware. "Looks like I'm gonna be short on
forks — would you bring yours when you come, Lucy Nan? And
you won't forget the cheese straws, will you?"
"Ellis Saxon! I can't believe you're worrying about
silverware and cheese straws with your long-lost kin
snoozing in this very house." Lucy opened the door a crack
and took a quick peek into the hallway. Empty, thank
goodness! "So... our Sleeping Beauty must've known Martha,
too," she said.