~ Constancy's Waltz ~

by

Donna H. Parker

My first reaction--the normal, instinctive reaction--is to take a quick glance around and hope there’s been no witness. Then I wish I were invisible or a million miles away.

Finally, I pick myself up, brush myself off, laugh with the inevitable spectators, and get on with my life. Having already spent about a quarter century tripping over anything within range, I had the routine down to a science.

“Gracious, Constancy! Did you hurt yourself?” My great-grandmother, Amanda Casey, and her best friend, Irma West, were sitting straight up in their 1950s-era, green metal lawn chairs, peering at me with anxious eyes.

I leaned back against the trunk of the old maple whose knobby roots had tripped me and brushed at the grass stains on my slacks. “I’m okay.” Disgusted with myself, as usual. Embarrassed, even with these two. But not physically hurt.

Reassured, their anxiety melted away, and Gram’s mouth crinkled at the corners. “You’re likely to break your neck one of these days if you take a notion to run every time we get on this subject.”

“I could go out for the Olympics if I made a serious habit of running every time you get on your pet topic. But I wasn’t running. I was just going in the house to--”

They flashed identical, disbelieving grins. They weren’t buying it, even if it was the truth. I couldn’t help grinning back, even if I did know better than to encourage them. “I don’t know what to do with you,” I said. “Both of you could give stubborn lessons to mules.”

“No better than you could,” Gram said. “Missouri folks naturally come that way.”

“Especially Missouri folks in our family, it seems to me.” I shot a look at Irma. “And their best friends.”

Gram chuckled. “It’s born and bred in all us old-timers. People lacking a bountiful supply of stubborn couldn’t make it in the Ozarks back when our ancestors moved here. Ones that didn’t have it soon moved back to softer and safer places. Or died out quick. Now. What was I saying before you fell down?”

I gave up on the grass stains. They were as impossible to brush off as Gram and Irma and their eternal scheming. “Dearest Gram, I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve forgotten. But, look, whoever this newest victim of yours is, he can’t have any idea what getting involved with you and Miss Irma means. They never do until it’s nearly too late. Then they could win Olympic medals.”

“Well, you don’t help things any.”

“And I don’t intend to start. How many times have I told you that? Luring them over here with fresh-baked pie! It’s probably illegal.”

“Since when is baking a pie for somebody illegal?”

“It should be for you, considering your motive. Can’t you just behave yourselves and leave these poor guys out of your dastardly plots?”

Irma let off one of her lady-like snorts. “Dastardly plots, my foot,” she said. “This boy’s a good deal better for the job than Ellis Nowland.”

“You had Ellis Nowland in your sights?” I had nothing against Ellis. In fact, Ellis was a definite cut above several of the others they’d targeted, but... “Ellis is an undertaker.”

“He prefers to be called a funeral director, Sweetie. And where would we be without funeral directors?”

“You have to admit it’s a steady job,” Gram said, with not a trace of a twinkle.

Irma grinned. “It’s a calling we appreciate more at our age. We did give Ellis some serious thought. He’s a nice boy. He’s a good citizen and a school board member. That might come in handy, since you’re a teacher. He’s not hurting for money, either. We both thought he was about perfect until we found out...” Irma’s mouth clamped into a hard, grim line.

I sighed. Gram and Irma, unlike some people I could name, didn’t get their fun from spreading gossip, but they eventually heard everything that was going around. Poor Ellis.

Gram shook her head sadly and took up the tale. “You know that boy won’t touch a piece of pie? Never has liked it, he tells me.”

It was all I could do to keep the laughter bottled up. Poor Ellis, indeed! Ellis ought to be on his knees giving thanks that he didn’t like pie--only I sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell him so.

Still, the pie business was a major blow to Gram’s and Irma’s plot development. “I’m surprised you didn’t switch the bait to cookies,” I said.

“Didn’t need to.” Gram glanced at her friend with that conspiratorial sparkle I had come to dread. “Irma came up with somebody even better. He’s a policeman. Hasn’t been working in Fraserton long. I caught him in the post office the other day. He’ll do. No use looking any further. He’ll do just fine.”

Give me patience! “You can’t tell me you found a rich cop.”

“Some qualities are more important than money, and you know it,” Irma said. “He’s got everything else.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Why not? I could kick myself for not thinking of him sooner. I’ve known his family for years. They live up in Morris County. Amanda’s already invited him over for pie, and he said he’d be here as soon as he could get a minute.”

“Well, you’ve done it this time. When he finds out what you’re up to, he’ll charge you with entrapment. Or something. You’ll both end up in jail.” I wasted a glare on each of them. “Come to think of it, though, maybe having you in jail for a few days would buy me a little peace.”

They giggled like they were thirteen instead of eighty-three.

They were impossible.

They were contagious, too. I never could keep a straight face when they got started.

“That’s more like it,” Gram said. “You don’t laugh anywhere near as much as you ought to these days.”

Irma’s face wrinkled into an impish grin. “Tomorrow’s the last day of school,” she said to Gram. “She’ll soon perk up now. I remember my first year of teaching. By the time it was over, I felt as worn out as a moldy old dishrag. The school year wasn’t nearly as long then as it is these days. And kids back then had the knack of sitting still and mostly doing what they were told. If they didn’t, they knew their parents would be on them harder than we were.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t have nearly as much paper work, either, Miss Irma. I have about a ton of that left to do before I can call myself finished for the year. Tomorrow may be the last day for the kids, but if I don’t get all the red tape finished up, I’ll have to stay a couple of days longer. I ought to go home and get started on it.”

“Ten minutes extra won’t make any difference, will it?” Gram asked. “You haven’t had your lemonade yet. Why don’t you run in and get it for us, if you can spare the time. I put the glasses out on the table.”

“Ten more minutes won’t make a bit of difference, as you well know. I wouldn’t think of leaving without my lemonade, and that is where I was going when I tripped.” I retreated to the kitchen before they could comment.

Despite my clumsiness, Gram had always trusted me with the Waterford crystal tumblers that once belonged to her grandparents. I filled them with ice and put them, along with the matching pitcher full of freshly squeezed lemonade, on the ornate silver tray we had used forever.

This was entrapment, too, but I was a willing victim. The Sunday afternoon ritual of lemonade in summer, hot lemon tea in winter, and the company of these over-aged adolescents had been a comfort and an anchor I’d clung to for most of my life.

Bless their conniving hearts. Gram and Irma didn’t mean any more harm with their cozy little plots than that maple tree had by growing its root where I needed to walk.

...But a policeman!

I carried tray, pitcher, and glasses very carefully back to the yard, and was delighted to see more company coming around the house.

“Hi, Joan!” I said.

Joan Russett and I had gone to school together at Lucian Fraser Elementary. Now we were two-thirds of the kindergarten teachers there. Gram and Irma wouldn’t be plaguing me while she was with us.

Gram beamed. “Get another glass, Constancy.”

“No,” Joan said quickly. “No, thanks. I can’t stay.” Her words came too fast. “Mom asked me to drop these green onions by. She thought you might like some.” She handed a bag to Gram, and the pungent scent of fresh spring onions wafted through the air. Joan turned to go.

“Tell her I’m proud to have them,” Gram said. “I’ll share them with Irma, and we’ll both enjoy every bite. Why don’t you sit down for a spell? You look worn to a frazzle.”

“I would, but I’ve got an awful lot to do. See you tomorrow, Constancy.” And she hurried away. That wasn’t like Joan.

“Well,” Irma said, gazing after her.

It was obvious from her expression that I was now going to be quizzed about Joan, unless I could distract her attention. “What kind of cookies did you bring today, Miss Irma?”

She reluctantly turned her attention back to our refreshments. “Oatmeal-hickory nut. I just baked them yesterday.”

“Ummm. My favorite!”

“You say that every week. It doesn’t matter what I bring.”

“These are the absolute best.”

Irma always provided the cookies to go with our lemonade or tea. All of them were delicious, but the oatmeal hickory-nut ones were extra special. She fought major battles with the squirrels each fall to see who would harvest the most nuts from the giant hickory tree that shaded her front porch. Even when she won the squirrel wars, though, getting the nuts out of the hard, thick shells was a challenge. She could have used pre-shelled pecans from the store, but that stubborn streak demanded homegrown hickory nuts. The flavor was worth it.

She handed me the carton full of cookies, along with the first volley of the inquisition. “Looks like this year’s been harder on Joan than it has on you.”

I took my time selecting a couple of especially fat, nutty treats, then passed the carton on to Gram, trying to think of a way to avoid talking about Joan’s problems. “Why do you say that?”

“She looked bad just now. Reminded me of her great-granny back in ’37 when Maude was getting over typhoid. All eyes and bones. And nerves.”

I was worried about Joan, myself. Since spring break, she had looked worse every day, and somebody had begun spreading some vicious rumors about why she looked so sick. Even so, it had been fifteen or more years since Joan and I had whispered our secrets to each other. I was in no way qualified to speculate on what was bothering her now. “Did you really know her great-grandmother?”