A Match Made in Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad

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СКАЧАТЬ June wished she had a penny for every time her mother had told her that there was too much salt and too little nutrition in canned soup and that it didn’t take much time or trouble to make a pot of vegetable soup so there was no excuse for just opening a can.

      It was the endless cans of soup that made Doris June start to worry that her mother was sick. But then, in this latest call, her mother had asked Doris June to go shopping before she flew home. She had already bought a ticket for May tenth at her mother’s request so she didn’t see any problem in picking up a few things for her mother.

      Doris June had shopped for her mother before and knew just where to find the housedresses that her mother liked. She even knew the colors her mother liked; they never varied. Nothing about her mother’s wardrobe varied. But this time her mother didn’t want a gingham house dress; she wanted a frilly, spring dress.

      “In cotton?” Doris June had asked, bewildered.

      “No, cotton’s too plain.”

      Cotton’s too plain, Doris June had wondered if she’d heard right. Her mother swore by cotton. It’s all she ever wanted to wear except for an old wool suit that she brought out for weddings and funerals. She’d never asked for anything else.

      “I’m thinking of some of that floaty material you see people wearing in magazines these days,” her mother continued.

      “You mean like chiffon?”

      “Yeah, something like that,” her mother said. “Something that swishes and swirls when you turn. In some pretty colors. Maybe rose or violet.”

      “You mean like the stuff they use when they make prom dresses?”

      “Yeah, that would work.”

      “It doesn’t sound very durable,” Doris June said. And what had happened to navy gingham housedresses with zippers?

      “Well, goodness, we don’t always need to be practical. A woman needs a pretty dress or two. And buy something for yourself while you’re at it—something that isn’t a suit. Something that floats.”

      “You’re sure you don’t want me to come home before the tenth?” Doris June asked after a moment. Her mother had already asked her to come and help with the traditional Mother’s Day pansies in church. Doris June didn’t understand why her mother needed help with a few plants, but if her mother asked for help, Doris June would drop everything to go. She had a plane reservation to leave next Tuesday, but she could change her plans.

      “Oh, don’t come early.” Her mother sounded alarmed. “We won’t be ready for you.”

      “We?”

      “Well, Charley’s going to help me start the baskets. I won’t need your help until the tenth.”

      Doris June was dumbfounded when she hung up the phone after the conversation ended. When she combined the mood swings with the erratic behavior and the talk of dresses in chiffon material, she finally realized what it all must mean.

      Her mother wasn’t sick: she was going senile.

      That must be why her mother had stopped cooking for herself and had become obsessed with planting pansies.

      Come to think of it, her mother had said months ago she and Charley were going to put off the work they had to do for the tourism board. Doris June hadn’t heard a mention of it since. Her mother wasn’t the kind of woman to keep anyone waiting for months for a few pieces of information, especially not an official group like the state tourism board. The woman who raised Doris June would turn that work around in a heartbeat.

      Yes, something was wrong.

      Even the pansies seemed to be an odd idea now that Doris June thought about it. Her mother hadn’t planted pansies for the past ten years. And, with her arthritis, why start again now? Was her mother having some kind of a flashback to a happier, simpler time?

      Doris wondered if her mother had been showing other signs of confusion. Her mother hadn’t been putting together any puzzles lately, either. She used to do dozens of puzzles every winter. Maybe the thousand-piece puzzles were suddenly too hard for her.

      Doris June made a mental note to pick up some hundred-piece puzzles while she was out shopping. A few puzzles that weren’t too challenging for her mother were certainly better things to buy her than some chiffon dress. Where would her mother even wear a dress like that?

      Doris June decided she would also stop by her doctor’s office and see if they had any information on the signs of early dementia. Maybe there were some mental exercises her mother could do or some special vitamins she could take.

      Doris June knew her mother didn’t have severe problems. If she were exhibiting really bizarre behavior, it would be obvious to everyone and someone from Dry Creek would call Doris June and tell her about it.

      Doris June took a deep breath and made herself relax. It wasn’t anything earthshaking. Older people often found themselves a little confused. Her mother was probably at the place where she needed to start making adjustments in her life. It was nothing to cause any major alarm. It was simply a part of the aging process. Her mother believed in being practical about such things, and Doris June had no doubt her mother would take her diminished sharpness in stride.

      Doris June was just glad she would be able to give her mother some more help during the whole process. It might even bring her and her mother closer together, Doris June decided. Her mother had been the strong one her whole life; it was natural that the positions would reverse themselves and Doris June would become the one who was strong for her mother, instead.

      The next week, on the Nelson farm just outside of Dry Creek, Charley pulled a chair up to the old table that stood squarely in the middle of the kitchen. Over the years, the stove in the kitchen had been replaced twice and the refrigerator three times. The cupboards had been refaced and the floor retiled. The one thing that hadn’t changed, though, was the table. He had sat down to breakfast at the same table in the same chair for the past forty years.

      For some of those years, Charley had wondered if his life was in a rut. A man ought to see some change over the years, he figured, or there was no point in being alive.

      When his son, Curt, moved home to take over the farm duties, Charley thought about relocating to someplace else, like maybe Florida or even just into the town of Dry Creek itself. He got maps and a book on the best places to retire. Then he realized he had everything he wanted in this small piece of Montana farmland and there was no reason to move anywhere else.

      He’d had no reason since then to regret his decision to stay.

      Watching the haggard look leave Curt’s face and seeing Ben fill out like a normal healthy teenager was something Charley wouldn’t miss for all the beaches in Florida. The big city of Chicago had taken its toll on his son and grandson, and Charley was glad they had returned to their roots.

      Breakfast was Charley’s favorite meal because all three Nelson men sat down together just like they were going to do this morning. It was seven o’clock and Ben was just coming in the kitchen door after feeding the horses. Curt was standing in front of the stove getting ready to flip the eggs.

      Charley hated to catch Curt in a moment when he needed his concentration, but sometimes a man had to think about the greater good even if it meant a yolk got broken.

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