Free Scrapped by Mollie Cox Bryan Page B

Annie’s bungalow, the two were sitting at the computer and looked up like nothing was wrong.
    “Goodness, Mama, you gave us a start!”
    “Oh,” Beatrice said to Cookie. “I forgot about the craft fair.”
    “I guess I can forgive that after seeing that huge thing painted on your house this morning,” Cookie said.
    “What happened, and are you okay?” Vera said, rushing up to her mother and hugging her.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Can’t you see I’m fine? Stop fussing over me. I’m looking for a painter to come and paint over that damned monstrosity and the whole house while he’s at it,” Beatrice said.
    Annie smiled weakly at Vera. Annie looked beautiful in her grungy clothes, without a stitch of make-up on. The always made-up Vera marveled silently at that.
    “Oh, well, good. You need to get that taken care of ASAP,” Vera said. “Mama,” she added, holding up a brown paper bag, “I brought you some of the poppy seed rolls you like so much.”
    “Oh,” Beatrice said, her eyes lighting up. “Let’s have some.”
    Annie sliced a roll as each of them claimed their spot around the tiny table. A high chair still sat in the corner, even though Annie’s boys hadn’t used it in years. Her fridge was covered with drawings and memos. Cereal boxes had been haphazardly placed on top of the fridge.
    “Oh my God, this is good,” said Cookie, taking another bite. “This is just the way they make it in Eastern Europe.”
    “You’ve been there?” Annie said.
    “Ah, um, yeah, I was, as a child,” she said, obviously a little uncomfortable talking about herself, as usual. “Where did you get this, Vera?”
    “From a little neighborhood bakery in Brooklyn. I try to pick Mom up a roll or two when they have it,” Vera answered.
    “I never had it before Vera brought it home. I’m quite taken with it,” Beatrice said. “I’ve only had poppy seeds in lemon poppy seed rolls. I understand you can make all kinds of things with it.”
    “We ate poppy seed cake every year for the holidays,” Cookie said, grinning and suddenly looking like she was seven years old.
    “Cake? Really?” Beatrice said.
    Each of the women sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying her poppy seed roll and coffee.
    “So, Mom, what are you doing at Annie’s? Why didn’t you call the cops?” Vera finally asked.

Chapter 19
    Walking to the grocery store, Beatrice always thought about the time she was stabbed there and didn’t know it until she got home and Vera pointed out that she had a knife sticking out the back of her neck. It was so odd to not feel that. According to the doctors, no nerve endings existed where the blade was plunged into her—right through her coat and scarf. It was a cold morning, like this morning, except then it was spring, and now it was fall. Beatrice preferred the cool spring to the cool fall. Perhaps it was because of what came after—summer and winter. God, she loved her seasons. She reached up and touched her scar, as had become her habit. Also, she paid more attention to who the people were around her. Today maybe more so than other days.
    She walked in the store and turned the corner to head for the produce. She loved looking at the tables and tables of fruit from all over the world. Loved the smell that came off of it. When she was a child, she had never heard of a pomegranate. Now she could buy one at the local grocer.
    “Good morning, Ms. Matthews,” the produce manager said to her as he fussed over the bananas.
    “Morning,” she said. What was he so friendly about? She’d known the Stickles family for years, and friendly wasn’t the term she’d use to describe any of them. Especially Fred, this young man’s father, who once hit a neighbor’s dog with his car and never turned around to see if it was okay. This boy appeared to be on the cusp of having serious mental problems.
    “What’s going on over at your house? I saw some graffiti,” he said.
    Beatrice shrugged. So that was it.