Harold Edison’s call came much sooner than Susan had expected, that very night in fact. Really, he was meeting expectations she had not had since the immediacy of childhood when she demanded, and sometimes got, instant results.
He asked if she could bring her daughter to meet him and she hesitated for a few seconds, wondering how long it would take her to convince Andrea, but then decided, why not, and made an appointment for the next afternoon.
When he agreed to the two o’clock time she suggested she could not help saying, “Do you have many clients?”
“Not more than I can be effective with,” he answered with a chuckle. “And most take away a solution or tools. I encourage independence.”
“Oh, I see.” She didn’t really.
“See you both tomorrow. And if your daughter balks and needs more time then call and we’ll make it a day or two later.”
As she hung up she wondered if it were so obvious that she had not yet consulted Andrea about her visit to him. It took her more than an hour to convince her daughter. She did it over the phone because if she went to her house she knew Andrea would keep getting up to do something or other and scattering all Susan’s convictions. On the telephone she had to listen. Finally she simply wore her down. Andrea was too tired and too angry to argue clearly and her distress was all carefully controlled under a social façade. Susan couldn’t have put this into words but she felt it and in spite of her daughter being nearly forty she did a mother-knows-best on her.
“I’ll pick you up at one-thirty, then.”
“Well, okay, but come by Jean’s house. I’ll take the kids there, it’s the only place I feel safe leaving them. They’ll have to miss swimming, I guess. What if he follows us?”
“Then he’ll know where we’re going,” Susan said matter-of-factly but not really calmly. She did not think Tom was dangerous but Andrea’s paranoia had a way of quickly affecting her.
As she got into bed that night, still on her own side after six years of widowhood, she patted the empty space beside her. She wondered what her husband would have thought of Harold Edison.
* * *
“Where are we going, Mother?,” Andrea asked when Susan turned the car down the narrow lane.
“Hush, don’t distract me. There should be a place to park somewhere near – ah, there it is.”
“I can’t get out,” Andrea said in a peevish tone. Susan obediently started the car again, backed up, waited until her daughter disembarked and then parked again. Really, she would like to slap her at times.
They made their way through the twig gate and Andrea followed her mother without comment or interest in her surroundings until they got near the cottage. Then she did stop and look at the water flowing over rocks imitating perfectly a section of stream.
Harold, who had been waiting for them in one of the chairs in the garden room came to greet them. “Would you like to sit outside?” he asked Andrea who had glanced at him, shaken his hand while introduced, and then turned her eyes back to the water.
“I’m allergic to wasps, “ she said.
Susan’s palm itched again to slap.
Inside Harold had turned the two wing chairs so they faced the other seating in the room. Susan made for one of them, knowing how comfortable they were, but Andrea chose a wooden chair almost off to the side and perched stiffly on the edge of it. Harold sat on the sofa, a rotund piece of furniture upholstered in what looked like hessian.
Susan, observing them all as if from a distance as they got settled because it made her feel in some way distanced – as perhaps Andrea was wishing by choosing the unchummy chair – thought what a strange trio they made, Harold, bent forward, elbows on lap staring at his hands with fingers slowly twisting, Andrea, upright and silent, the ten or more pounds she had put on since the marriage break-up straining her clothing unprettily and Susan wishing she would at least make an effort and keep her knees together, and she, sitting like some grand dame at an afternoon’s entertainment waiting for the music to start.
As she glanced at her daughter looking so unlovely, Harold’s question about Andrea perhaps having another man touched her mind and this time she did not dismiss it but considered the fact that Andrea had suddenly, a year or so ago, begun to take very good care of herself, grooming, exercise, had seemed to become happier. Then, several months back, all this had changed. Now Susan realized it was before the marriage broke up, not after. Almost as if there had been somebody and that had broken up and then Andrea had shoved away Tom… Oh, what a notion, she thought and pushed it away as Harold was asking Andrea.
“Are you here under duress? I don’t wish you to stay if it is too wrong for you.”
“Well I am certainly not here of my own choosing,” she replied, “but my mother seems to think you can help me and – convinced” (Susan was sure she was about to say “forced”) “me to come.” She was staring at his fingers making slow rhythmic patterns with each other.
Susan wished now she had thought to mention to Andrea that Harold had some rather unusual mannerisms. She was afraid her daughter would suddenly stand up and walk out if she felt his behavior too strange. Once she had come home from a children’s party because the girl’s father had kept clicking his teeth.
“Will you let me try to help?”
After a few long moments Andrea gave a sigh, relaxed back into her chair, crossed her ankles. Her shrug was graceful and her smile charming if not very deep. “As you wish. What have I got to lose?”
He began to question her in much the same way he had done with Susan the day before. Details and details. Definition of terms – stalker, abuse, reasonable expectations. Her feelings, her perception of the children’s feelings, an attempt to elicit from Andrea how her husband felt. To this Andrea merely said, “Tom is no longer my husband except in the eyes of the law and I want that changed.”
“There is someone else.” Harold did not ask, he stated.
“There – is – no – one – else.” Andrea’s words were stones dropped without room for doubt.
“No longer.” Harold said, staring at her.
She stared back and said nothing. Oh god, Susan thought, and wondered who it had been. It would occur to her later that there had been no pussy-footing around about the “someone else” referring to Tom’s situation.
Harold went back to asking how they had met but Andrea would have none of that either, saying, as she had the first time, “I don’t want to go into that, I don’t think it has anything to do with this, there is no chance for reconciliation.”
He acknowledged her perception. “Just so you are clear on this. Then tell me what you envision five years down the road.”
Both Andrea and Susan looked a bit startled by the question but it seemed to perk Andrea up and she began to thoughtfully pursue the query out loud. Susan was listening with interest but her glance strayed out the window.
Harold cupped a hand at Andrea as if he were about to catch a ball, “Sorry to interrupt for a moment. Susan, would you like to make some tea. Everything is on the counter.”
She would. She could still hear what was said and she did not feel she was being got out of the way. And she was thirsty.
The kitchen was marvelous, not that she had expected anything ordinary after the rest of the house. Again the intriguing roof line opened the space to light and sky and here the back wall was mostly glass with the row of Douglas fir outside seeming to be indoors. Or the kitchen to be outdoors. Really, he was a nature fanatic. Her ire was not with the fact of this, she quite liked it, but more to do with the cost and her being charged such a high fee when he obviously didn’t need it. In financial concerns logic deserted her.
The counters and floors both seemed to be old bricks set in old wood. As she waited for the kettle to boil she gave curious scrutiny to the appliances which were a brilliant yellow and looked like cubes of sun had fallen through the trees. They looked painted. She’d never thought of painting a stove and refrigerator. The sink looked like poured cement. The kettle was boiling and she had to end her pleasant surveyance. And she hadn’t really paid attention to Andrea’s plans for the future. Maybe she didn’t really want to know. She didn’t look forward to being part of any more disharmony.
As Susan carried in the tea tray Andrea stood up and said, “I need a washroom”. She ignored her mother’s glance pleading for a little more decorum and followed Harold’s pointing in the direction of the requested room.
Andrea was back out before tea was all poured and Susan was glad she hadn’t done a long sulk in the bathroom, a favored ploy of hers as a teenager, those few years when they had tried living at a posh address and had cut down on house space to afford the neighborhood. Andrea and her younger sister had then shared a bedroom because their father needed the third bedroom for his den. For those two years Andrea seemed to have spent a lot of time locked in the downstairs bathroom: the house had had three bathrooms and a three-car garage. Poor kid, Susan now thought with the clarity of hindsight, she must have been miserable and that bathroom her only privacy.
They drank the tea and ate the delicate cookies, spoke of general things and Harold said the kitchen appliances were indeed painted with a marine paint and the bricks were from the Esquimalt lagoon. Andrea was not talkative but at least she was not making sarcastic comments, another of her defenses.
“I’ll call you as soon as possible,” he said as he was walking them toward the gate, then he scooped a cat up and draped it around his neck. He looked rather endearingly absurd. Susan did not know whether to sigh or to laugh so she did both. Andrea gave her the look she frequently received from her mother when Susan wanted her to behave. Susan behaved and left on a formal note whereas she would have liked to reach out for a handshake, or, even, a hug. Really, now.
Two days later Andrea called. Susan had been anxious, impatient, but also rather confidently expectant. Andrea sounded bored. Susan wondered what she was afraid of. “That Harold Edison has made an appointment for tomorrow at two. He wanted to know if you would be there and how I felt about it if you were and I said I thought you’d want to be since you were paying for it and would like to see where your money was going.”
“Oh, dear, that was a bit crass of you.”
“I guess it was. Sorry. I don’t know what you think he will accomplish – and if he asks me any more questions I will likely scream, but – I have said I’d keep the appointment. See you tomorrow.”
Susan noticed but did not comment on the dusty appearance of Andrea’s car the next day. At least Andrea was wearing make-up and her hair looked reasonable.
This time they both practically marched down the brick path. A ten-foot waterfall could have appeared in the stream bed and they likely would not have noticed.
Harold was waiting for them in the doorway and moved aside to let them through. Susan went first and saw before Andrea did but when her daughter was several feet into the room she suddenly saw Tom and hell happened. Tom was seated on one of the wing chairs and he started to rise, a pained look on his face, but Andrea had gone to pieces. Her hands, clenched to fists, she raised to either side of her face, strangled “No!” ‘s came out of her mouth and she turned blindly to the door. Harold had closed the bottom half as he came in and she, not realizing this, fell across it.
Tom had started forward but stopped at a look from Susan; Harold was now between them moving to help Andrea but she had pushed herself upright, turned back into the room and her voice found volume. “No,no, no!!!!” she was screaming with her eyes tightly shut. Susan moved toward her and tried to take her arm but Andrea flung her off with such force Susan staggered and Harold steadied her.
“No! No! No!” The shouting continued.
Harold spoke, not loudly, but with great precision and force. His words became almost tangible. “Andrea, listen to me. Now. I want you to listen to me. Now. Andrea. Listen to me.”
She stopped sputtering out the negatives but her breath was noisy and she kept her eyes closed.
“I have talked to Tom at length. He agreed to go and see my sister-in-law who is a clinical psychologist. After their session she assured me that he is not a threat to you and your children. He is going crazy over losing you and agrees he has resorted to behavior that you have identified, quite correctly, as stalking. You are going crazy over unresolved differences and lifestyle and expectations. And guilt. This is all understandable. A solution is possible. Not a reconciliation, unless you change your mind and agree to one. But this is not necessary. The present situation is intolerable and getting worse. A solution is possible.”
His voice was hypnotic, soothing. “A solution is possible.” As he repeated this Andrea opened her eyes and Tom closed his.
No one spoke. Andrea looked at Harold and he nodded at her. She frowned and her mouth turned down as if she were about to cry.
“That’s exactly what you need,” he told her gently but as she realized what he meant she clenched her teeth and breathed heavily through her nose. Cry? Not she. Never. It made her too vulnerable.
“My dear strong Scorpio,” Harold murmured at Andrea with a bit of a smile and Susan felt a lump suddenly come into her throat and tears rise in her eyes. Really. She wished they could all sit down but Harold seemed to have them in some sort of static spell as he continued, “Tom, you have agreed to continue to see my sister-in-law?” Tom nodded. Andrea would not look at him but she caught the gesture.
“Andrea, I suggest you see a psychiatrist for yourself. You will all benefit from help. This is a family affair.” He gazed at Susan for a moment but she pointedly ignored the implication. She wanted to give him a nod of approval, to show she understood the situation was all about them, but he did not seem to be willing to go along with this. Then she started as her daughter gave a “Harumph!” like a fishwife.
“He only has to see a psychologist; why do I have to see a shrink?” The attempt at humor tore Susan’s heart.
“Because you need someone skilled in physical medicine as well. I detect a substance dependency of some sort, likely sleeping pills or tranquilizers or a combination of both, very understandable and commendable, in a way, knowing you have been looking for something to ease your pain rather than hiding it” – Andrea was staring at him as if frozen – “and a psychiatrist in our culture is the closest we get to someone allowed to treat both your body and mind and hopefully, give a thought to soul.”
Tom started to say something, stopped to clear his throat so the words could come out, said, “I’ll pay for all this.”
“Well, that’s a very kind offer, “ Susan began but Andrea looked at her and said helplessly, “Oh, mother.”
Harold had put his hands to his face and was now massaging his eyebrows, back and forth, with his bent index fingers. Susan swallowed the bewilderment and anger she felt at Andrea’s words to her and focused on the very odd mannerisms of this man.
Then he suddenly ceased and said, in his normal voice, “Well, that’s that. I wish you all the very best of luck. This is both an end and a beginning.”
Tom moved to leave, shaking Harold’s hand as he passed him. Andrea had moved away from the door and would not look at him as he left.
After Tom had gone Andrea walked across the polite noises of thanks and goodbye which her mother was making and some indirect reference to the consultation fee, in case Tom did not mean those so far to be taken into account and Harold’s equally awkward reply to this latter point … Andrea walked up, stood for a moment in front of him, then gave him a fierce, quick hug before walking out.
Susan followed her daughter but not before she gave Harold an unfathomable look. He felt it was a cross between wanting to tear away his face or perhaps hug him as well. Either made him extremely uncomfortable. He thought her noble ancestors might have understood her look – and applauded it.
When they had all gone he went out and stood by the stream, hands folded in front of him. Water was so cleansing.
He had had enough of being a fly on the wall as far as knowing what his clients were thinking and was ready to go back to life from his perspective. He started at a fast trot up to the main house and catching sight of Polly in the kitchen window he bellowed out to her to put the kettle on.
Harold Edison Chapter Five
Just as Susan Trevally was deciding how to gracefully flee, the impact of the cottage captured her. She stopped and, uncharacteristically, stared.
It seemed to be constructed directly on the ground with numerous windows and an intriguing slope to the roof. The right corner was a porch that was not a porch, a room that was not a room but a combination of both with the wooden floor turning into flagstones and weathered bricks, the bricks leading up toward the main house, the flags down toward the lane gate. Two chairs, a tiered table, stack of books and a cat were on the wooden floor part. Through the window behind the table she could see what looked like a den or possibly bedroom. In the corner of the alcove were two split doors but on second glance she could see that one of the doors was actually a window. Both upper halves were open. The doors and windows were red cedar but the floor looked like old oiled fir. The house itself was narrow planks stained a golden cinnamon.
Harold did not hurry her from her gazing.
“It’s, quite – amazing,” she said at last and led by his outstretched hand she walked from the rock and brick onto the floor and then into the cottage. She immediately halted again and half-turned to him with an apologetic laugh, “Sorry, but you must be used to this reaction.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
She could see now that the roof lines let in light and offered a view of sky and tree tops; she had to look twice to make sure there was glass in them. Her estimation shot up another notch or two and she wondered who on earth had come up with such a design.
“I did,” Harold answered her thought, “the hard part was to get someone to execute my plan. What a word – such awful associations – to signify bringing about something of beauty.”
She ignored this second flight of word speculation. She was not done with looking. The area in front of her was all windows, paned ones, with real wood dividers, not plastic. To the right was a curved wall – curved! – with an arch through which she could see a kitchen, again with more windows. The entire wall seemed to be made of trees, not twigs like the gate and fence, but real trees.
She looked at him for an explanation. “A woodlot being cut down for development. My brother rescued it for me and dried it and then helped me install it. That was many years ago and it has not done all the things people told me it would do.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, you know, bugs, warping, sap seepage, limited appeal. I have never grown tired of it.”
Through the door to the right she could see that it was indeed a bedroom with some sort of carved wooden bed and a spread of what looked like – she took a second look, – t-shirts.
Harold laughed. “Please feel free to look – yes, it is t-shirts. Collected by my wife and eldest daughter starting, oh, maybe ten or fifteen years back, and putting -, what do you call that puffy stuff – ?
“Batting?”
“ – yes, batting, into them and stitching them all together into a quilt.”
Susan shook her head slightly at all this. It didn’t fit into any neat slot in her orderly mind.
“Come and sit down.”
He placed them in the wing chairs turned toward the windows. A rug in uneven blocks of magnificently earthy colors covered the fir floor under the chairs and Susan admired it as she lay down her purse.
“A friend of ours back in Ontario did that.”
“Is it woven – no, it looks stitched.”
“It is. Gros point, another wrongly descriptive word.”
Susan bit back saying that if he pronounced it right, ‘grow’ not ‘gross’, it would not be inappropriate. Instead she said, “These chairs remind me of the Empress, the lobby.”
“Bang on!” he chuckled. “That’s where they come from. Bought them at a sale when they were doing those renovations. I used to spend some worthwhile time sitting and thinking in that lobby before they turned the whole area into a tea room. I was so happy to acquire a tangible reminder of those days. Like marbles in my pocket.”
Susan thought she could follow this train of thought so did not dismiss it but smiled.
“Some tea?” he was asking. “It’s Japanese lime from the tea store on Fort Street.”
“Please.” she said. “And then let’s get on with it,” she thought but did not say.
“Then we’ll get on with it,” he echoed her words. She had a shot of discomfort at his seeming to know what she was thinking.
He poured the tea from what looked like a workman’s thermos into pottery cups and saucers. She declined lemon or sugar or honey and noted the delicacy of the cup. Clay breathing porcelain.
“Now we can start. I understand from our phone – “
“Grammppppppaaaaaa. Graaaaaammmmmmpppaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Harold put down his cup, strode to the door, went out into the outdoor room and in a surprisingly loud voice yelled, “What is it, Melanie?”
The child’s voice called something back which Susan did not catch.
“I’m working. Where’s your grandmother?”
Then he came back into the house, said excuse me to Susan, picked up an intercom phone and pushed a button. Then, “Thickest floors this side of the Rockies.” He spoke into the phone. “Melanie has managed to raise me with her shouts from the attic when she couldn’t make you hear downstairs. I’ll have to talk to her about leg power as well as voice power.” He sounded amused and Susan did not think it was presented for her benefit.
“See to her please. Yes, I am in consultation.” He ended with something that sounded like “Arbunzo.” She wondered what language that was.
“Sorry about that,” he said as he settled back into his chair and picked up his cup. She wondered if he were English or had lived in England. Canadians didn’t know how to enjoy tea comfortably from easy chairs with a table at just the right height. She abhorred coffee tables; they were only suitable for stretching legs out to and putting feet upon – if no one else were about.
“Now, tell me why you have come.”
She looked at him, took another sip of the excellent tea, put her cup down, thought, well, here goes nothing, because it was an unusual situation.
“My daughter is being stalked by her former husband and she doesn’t know what to do about it.”
“I see,” Harold said and sat holding his cup in front of him in both hands like some kind of offering. When he didn’t immediately say anything but held to that absurd posture Susan asked somewhat snappishly, “Do you think you could help?”
“I hope so,” he answered, still holding the cup aloft after taking a sip of tea.
Something about the supplicant position clicked in her mind. “Oh my god,” she thought but said, “You’re not that psychic, are you?”
She was rather aghast at the possibility. What had Agnes gotten her into.
“Oh, likely,” he answered which was not at all encouraging or enlightening. He was finding himself annoyed with parts of this woman. He had a few times in his career reacted so strongly against someone that he had had to admit it and most of the time the relationship had ended then and there. Perversely, once it had not and the outcome was very successful. He felt in this case it was simply a personality clash that he could keep subdued, not close down around.
“I have heard that there is someone in town who solves problems by reading auras or some such thing.” Her voice left nothing to guessing as to how she felt. Oh well, if it was rude, at least get her feelings out into the open and let her get out of here. Maybe he would defray his fee as the time spent being within testing limits.
“I can’t see auras,” he told her, and sounded a bit regretful. “People say all sorts of things about me and how I work but I don’t use cards or read palms or count the bumps on your head. I can be quite conventional. My training is in western medicine and psychology so I have the book learning but I am not licensed to practice as either a doctor or psychologist.”
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“Too restrictive,” he told her simply.
“Well then what do you do? I mean how?”
He felt disinclined to explain, wanted to simply put on a take-it-or-leave-it-look, but he took in a deep breath, felt for compassion, found it, and went on, “I use all that book knowledge, of course, and try to keep up to date with new thoughts and findings in those fields. I have a wide network of professional people who I can call on. For myself I go by feelings. I have my greatest successes when I can let go of the mind and listen to what the body tells me.”
She was feeling most uncomfortable with this. Her face showed it for he said, “I could give you references, you said your friend had recommended me. But how about we discuss the situation for a bit and see where it takes us. I – I won’t charge you if you are not satisfied after we talk.” He had never been at ease discussing money.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter – “ she started to say but then realize it did matter, his fee was hefty, so she added, “Well, thank you very much.”
“Not at all. Since I appear quite unorthodox many people have initial reservations and I am glad you have expressed them.” He was. He could cope with humanity, hers and his, given a chance.
He finally put down his cup and she felt a barrier had been removed. She had an instant thought that maybe he was unsure of his clients, at first, as well, and that he felt better as a session progressed. The idea made her feel more kindly toward him. He turned in his seat to face her directly.
“Why is your daughter’s husband stalking her?”
“He’s crazy.” Her eyes narrowed.
“What would he say his reasons were?”
She stared. “Oh, I see what you mean, well, I guess he’d say it’s because the marriage broke up and he didn’t want it to.” She would have thought this was obvious. Maybe he didn’t deal in the obvious which seemed a detriment to her at first, followed closely by the thought that it didn’t seem anything this man did was ordinary.
Harold was twisting his fingers slowly together and she wished he would stop. Really, he had the most irritating mannerisms.
“Are there children?”
“Ye-sss.”
He caught the hesitation and now raised his eyebrows at her, dominant ones.
“That isn’t an issue,” she hastily assured him.
“How can they not be?”
“Graaannnnnnpaaaaaa” came the child’s voice again and Harold ‘s twisting fingers clenched so they shone white but the call was not repeated and he relaxed again.
“How can they not be an issue?” he repeated. “There must be custody agreements.”
She touched the corners of her mouth with her thumb and fore- finger. “Well, yes, that is part of the problem. I suppose you’ll say he’s justified, then.”
“I didn’t say that. Custody of children is almost always a problem. Custody of pets can be. I’ve known people to be moved to bizarre behavior over houseplants.”
Susan felt he wasn’t about to leap in judgment so she offered more. “The children are an issue, yes, but I don’t think it’s the only reason. He didn’t want the marriage to end.”
Harold’s finger twisting had become less annoying and almost soothing to her sight.
“Why did it?”
She shrugged. “Why does any marriage end?” she asked but he got the impression she just didn’t know.
“Is there another man involved?”
“No!” Susan looked shocked.
“Is her husband a reasonable man? Did you find he was normally understanding when you knew him under less stressful circumstances?”
Her lips twisted into a disclaimer but she felt she should be fair. “Yes, he was. But not lately.”
He poured out more tea. “This was the thermos my father took to work every day.”
She didn’t care what his damned father did or didn’t do; she just wanted to get on with this. To feel the knot in her stomach over it all ease.
“I’ll need more details,” he told her. “I would like to tape the conversation.” She sighed and gave a bit of a nod as permission. He asked the most extraordinary questions, seemed to latch onto areas no one else would think of. She felt rather exhausted when they were finished and as if she had exposed everything she could possibly know to him. If she had given pieces of a puzzle well good luck to him in trying to piece it all together into a picture that would solve anything!
Finally he said, “That’s all for now.”
“Well, fine,” she said, reaching for her purse and then rising. “When will I hear from you?”
“I have to think about all this for awhile. Then I’ll be in touch and we will take it from there.”
There was nothing she could do and nothing she could say so she walked to the door and out. He followed.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said politely and as they walked onto the flagstones he reached out and gently touched her arm. “I know it seems strange, this way of going about it, but I have been effective in the past with domestic disputes and I don’t doubt that I will be now. I need time to take this all in and see what comes back out. I’d say don’t worry but this seems foolish – of course you are worried – all I ask is that you have a bit of trust for the time being and I will do my best not to let you down.”
He took his hand off her arm. He had the most reassuring touch and she felt oddly comforted, like the time the nurse was giving her a needle, which she hated, and instead of telling her to relax-this-won’t-hurt-a-bit, had taken a moment to just rest a hand on her hand and say, “Needles can be scary at any age,” and she had relaxed.
He pointed out the lane and suggested she come that way next time, it being closer and easier, and mentioned the little alcove where she could park. She did peer into the windows of the kitchen as she walked past the house this time and there seemed to be a number of people there but only a child paid her attention.
Susan got in her car and started on the drive home, the feel of his touch still on her bare arm. She realized how much she missed being touched now that her husband had died. She missed it when he was alive, she admitted to herself, but then at least there was the potential of reaching out to someone and having physical contact. Now she missed the chance as well.
Putting that train of thinking aside as being too painful she thought about Andrea; she was not going to say a word to her daughter until she heard from him and had something definite. He had asked many questions about herself, Susan, as well. Which she found surprising. She was purely an onlooker in all this, a well wisher.
After she had left, Harold walked up to the main house, dropped to his knees just inside the kitchen door and with palms in a prayerful position and raised dramatically, he implored, “Please, please, please, do not, not, not disturb me when I am working.”
Polly said, “Sorry,” as she had many times before, even though it was not her fault. Melanie, the guilty one, non-contrite, said, “Grandpa you are totally crazy.” Harold bared his teeth at her, got up off his knees and sat down at the table.
“What’s the problem with her title?” he asked Polly .
“You never mentioned it to her?” Polly clenched her teeth at him.
“Of course I did.”
“What title? Who?” Melanie wanted to know.
“We’re talking business, smooge,” Polly told her. “Be patient for a bit and then you can tell gramps about what we are going to do tomorrow afternoon.”
“You never suggested I not mention it.”
“I certainly intended to. Something must have interrupted.”
“So, what?” he inquired, aware of ears on even a six-year-old pitcher.
“Talk of her husband having bought it.”
“No wonder she wasn’t pleased.”
“What’s a title and where do you buy them?” Melanie wanted to know.
“You know what a title is, it’s what a book is named,” Polly told her. “And you can’t really buy them, that’s just a grown-up way of saying things.”
“I know,” Melanie assured her, “I’ll understand-when-I’m-older.”
“Ex-actly! Now tell Gramps where we are going tomorrow.”
“Where is everybody?” Harold asked before she launched into the telling. Melanie was never short-winded.
“Sera’s gone home, Melanie is staying the night, Josephine called to say she will drop by again later, she has something to discuss”
She looked at Harold. He gave a quick grin. “One up-manship,” he revealed. “A father with five daughters needs that occasionally that a female will confide in him first.”
“Now can I talk?” pleaded Melanie.
“Go to it.” And she did.