John?
I didn’t know of any connection he’d have to Listening Lark either, but what did I really know about him? Was it possible he knew Dream? He was older than me, maybe early thirties.
Robin had said he’d lived in Poplin with his grandma for a long time. But where were his parents? How long is a long time? That time span could be a lifetime, or five years. I’d be digging in at dinner today. Hopefully his grandma would like to talk.
John and his grandma lived in a small ranch house, just outside of town, the opposite way from our farm. It was a tidy tan siding house with dark cranberry shutters and a matching cranberry front door. Bright yellow mums, a bit deflated from the morning’s frost, sat in a large tan plastic planter. A homemade grapevine wreath hung on the front door.
John answered the door, a wide smile on his face. “Happy Thanksgiving, Greencastles!”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Archie and I said in unison.
We walked into the neat as a pin house. The front door opened to a comfortable living room with two beige floral sofas and a large, overstuffed chair, and an oval, well-loved coffee table in the center. A large flatscreen TV hung on the far wall.
An older woman, not as old as I expected, walked out of the kitchen. She was a petite woman with short salt-and-pepper hair, wearing khaki pants and a pretty, sparkly deep brown sweater. She smiled at us in a friendly way.
“Oh, hello,” she greeted warmly. “I’m Debra—Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” I said. I handed her a bouquet of fall flowers, and Archie gave John a pumpkin roll.
“Thank you,” Debra said. “Oh, pumpkin roll is one of my favorites. Did you make it, Aimee?”
“Yes, I did, it’s one of Archie’s favorites too.” I laughed.
John hung up our coats, and we proceeded to the combination kitchen and dining room. Older, dark cabinets lined the walls, beige laminate kitchen counters, plain light beige linoleum stretched out on the floor, somewhat worn, but gleaming clean.
A large country blue braided rug sat atop the linoleum. A rectangular dining table, with six padded chairs, sat on the rug. The table had a bright orange and yellow plaid tablecloth and was set with cream colored dinnerware. A tall hutch, painted the same color as the rug, stood against the wall filled with various dishes and bric-a-brac. Delicious smells filled the room.
Debra placed the flowers into a vase and put them in the center of the well-laid table. “They look beautiful.”
“Some wine?” John offered.
Archie and I accepted the glasses, nodding our appreciation.
“I’m so glad you two could join us.” Debra smiled. “You’re such good friends with my Johnny.”
“Johnny?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
John laughed. “Grandma’s the only one who calls me Johnny.”
“Maybe I’ll start,” Archie teased.
“Nope,” John retorted.
I turned to Debra. “Our pleasure. So nice to finally meet you. John talks about you often.”
Debra smiled. “I keep meaning to stop in at your store, but Johnny stops in after work to get what I need. One of these days.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” I replied. I’d much rather see Debra than “Johnny.”
“Shall we eat?” Debra motioned to the table. “Everything is ready.”
Dinner proved to be a wonderful feast and Debra an upbeat and interesting conversationalist. She was a retired emergency room nurse, a single mother to John’s mother and a son who died as a teenager in a car accident. She volunteered at the local humane society and liked to take painting classes. I really liked her. She was nothing like John. John, on the other hand, was polite and seemingly friendly when we were in a group, but when we passed each other in the hallway as I walked to the bathroom, he glared at me in a most unfriendly way. Obviously, he was putting on a show for his grandma and Archie. His behavior toward me was downright disturbing.
The dinner dishes were cleared away, and we were drinking coffee with pumpkin pie and pumpkin roll, our bellies bursting as they did every Thanksgiving Day.
“Oh, Johnny, I remember how your mom loved pumpkin pie,” Debra said. “I always had to make sure to make two pies, so everyone got some.”
“I know, Grandma.” John nodded.
I sipped my coffee. “Where is your mom, John?”
A silence fell over the room for a moment, and I quickly regretted asking the question.
“Well, my daughter left when Johnny was two years old. She was a young single mother, like me, but she wanted a different life.” Debra paused. “She knew I would take care of her Johnny.”
“Where did she go?” Archie asked.
I wasn’t the only one who asked awkward questions.
“I don’t know, she just left,” said Debra. “She told me to take care of Johnny and she’d be in touch. We’ve never heard a peep from her. Nothing, not even a Christmas card or a birthday gift for Johnny. I pray that she’s doing well.”
Archie and I nodded, finishing our dessert. John got up to retrieve more wine.
THIRTY-SIX2016
Christmas at the Commune
Dream
