She really oughta be with other kids, instead of trailing around with me,” Jerome said when he was once again on the scaffold. He started scraping, his muscular arms making easy work of the blistered paint.
“You got kids, Polly?”
Her steady scraping faltered. She should have expected the question, but she hadn’t. And how was Jerome to know it was the most difficult of questions for her?
CHAPTER EIGHT
"I had one daughter, named Susannah. She died a year ago last February when she was nine.”
“That’s a rough one.” Jerome was sympathetic, but he didn’t seem to be ill at ease the way so many people were when Polly told them about Susannah.
“I had a brother who died when he was eight,” he added after a moment. “Billy was just eleven months older than me. We were as close as twins. We always shared a bed, and we used to wear the same clothes. I still think about him, imagine what he’d look like as a man—how tall he’d be, what his voice would sound like. I suppose you do that with Susannah, too, huh? Sort of imagine her growing up?”
Polly was astounded. She gaped at him. “Yeah,” she managed to say. “I do imagine that.”
His complete understanding had caught her off guard. She’d become so accustomed to people’s awkwardness when she talked of Susannah, so aware of their relief when the subject changed and they could speak about something else. How absolutely unexpected to find in this young workman the acceptance so lacking in her friends.
Not just your friends, either, she corrected herself with bitter honesty. Even Michael avoids conversations about Susannah. You know he does. He has from the moment of her death. The fact that her husband wouldn’t verbally share with her their precious memories of their child was one of the things that hurt her the most deeply.
“What did she die of?” Jerome’s wide, sweeping strokes with the scraper formed a pattern for Polly to follow, as did his ease with this conversation.
“She had a brain tumor.”
“Billy had leukemia.”
“Were there other kids in your family, Jerome?”
“Oh, yeah. Seven of us—four boys and three girls—but we didn’t grow up together,” he confided. “Right after Billy died Social Services took the rest of us into care. We grew up in separate foster homes.”
Polly tried to imagine what that would have been like for a little boy, and she wondered, as well, why it had happened.
“It must have been really hard on you, losing your brother and then your whole family being separated like that.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. I realize now that it was for the best. See, my mom and pop were alcoholics. Living with them got really hairy sometimes. We never had enough food or anything in the house. We couldn’t count on them being there. I used to think when I was a kid that Billy got sick because we were hungry so much of the time. Of course I know now that had nothing to do with it, but you get funny ideas when you’re little.” He glanced down at his daughter, playing with a watering can and the hose. “Clover asked me the other day if her mom went away because she was a bad girl.”
“What did you tell her?”
“It really threw me at first. I didn’t know she felt that way. I finally said that her mommy loved her a lot, and she didn’t want to leave her, but she knew that Clover would be fine with me. And that daddies never, ever, leave their little girls.” The hard, determined edge to his voice revealed more than his words.
“That was a really good answer, Jerome.”
“Thanks.” He gave Polly a grateful look and a wide grin. “Kids can really put you on the spot at times, huh?”
“They really can.” Polly smiled and shook her head. “I remember Susannah asking me about a friend who was pregnant, why she had such a fat tummy. I explained that she had a baby inside her, and the next day Susannah went up to another woman who was quite overweight and wanted to know
“You got kids, Polly?”
Her steady scraping faltered. She should have expected the question, but she hadn’t. And how was Jerome to know it was the most difficult of questions for her?
CHAPTER EIGHT
"I had one daughter, named Susannah. She died a year ago last February when she was nine.”
“That’s a rough one.” Jerome was sympathetic, but he didn’t seem to be ill at ease the way so many people were when Polly told them about Susannah.
“I had a brother who died when he was eight,” he added after a moment. “Billy was just eleven months older than me. We were as close as twins. We always shared a bed, and we used to wear the same clothes. I still think about him, imagine what he’d look like as a man—how tall he’d be, what his voice would sound like. I suppose you do that with Susannah, too, huh? Sort of imagine her growing up?”
Polly was astounded. She gaped at him. “Yeah,” she managed to say. “I do imagine that.”
His complete understanding had caught her off guard. She’d become so accustomed to people’s awkwardness when she talked of Susannah, so aware of their relief when the subject changed and they could speak about something else. How absolutely unexpected to find in this young workman the acceptance so lacking in her friends.
Not just your friends, either, she corrected herself with bitter honesty. Even Michael avoids conversations about Susannah. You know he does. He has from the moment of her death. The fact that her husband wouldn’t verbally share with her their precious memories of their child was one of the things that hurt her the most deeply.
“What did she die of?” Jerome’s wide, sweeping strokes with the scraper formed a pattern for Polly to follow, as did his ease with this conversation.
“She had a brain tumor.”
“Billy had leukemia.”
“Were there other kids in your family, Jerome?”
“Oh, yeah. Seven of us—four boys and three girls—but we didn’t grow up together,” he confided. “Right after Billy died Social Services took the rest of us into care. We grew up in separate foster homes.”
Polly tried to imagine what that would have been like for a little boy, and she wondered, as well, why it had happened.
“It must have been really hard on you, losing your brother and then your whole family being separated like that.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. I realize now that it was for the best. See, my mom and pop were alcoholics. Living with them got really hairy sometimes. We never had enough food or anything in the house. We couldn’t count on them being there. I used to think when I was a kid that Billy got sick because we were hungry so much of the time. Of course I know now that had nothing to do with it, but you get funny ideas when you’re little.” He glanced down at his daughter, playing with a watering can and the hose. “Clover asked me the other day if her mom went away because she was a bad girl.”
“What did you tell her?”
“It really threw me at first. I didn’t know she felt that way. I finally said that her mommy loved her a lot, and she didn’t want to leave her, but she knew that Clover would be fine with me. And that daddies never, ever, leave their little girls.” The hard, determined edge to his voice revealed more than his words.
“That was a really good answer, Jerome.”
“Thanks.” He gave Polly a grateful look and a wide grin. “Kids can really put you on the spot at times, huh?”
“They really can.” Polly smiled and shook her head. “I remember Susannah asking me about a friend who was pregnant, why she had such a fat tummy. I explained that she had a baby inside her, and the next day Susannah went up to another woman who was quite overweight and wanted to know
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