Free Daisy Lane by Pamela Grandstaff

Branduff that well,” Bonnie said. “She was one to keep herself to herself. Those two daughters of hers were as wild as weeds along the highway. One got herself in the family way in high school and the boy’s parents moved him away. The other one ran off and I don’t know where to or what she’s doing.”
    “What about Grace?”
    “She used to come in here with Charlotte; just a quiet little girl with good manners. She hasn’t been in any trouble that I’ve heard of. Ava doesn’t like her, but I don’t pay much mind to what Ava thinks of people. She’ll soon have her hands full with our Charlotte. She was in here the other day, face plastered in makeup, heels so high she could barely walk; couldn’t take her eyes off her cell phone.”
    “Could you use Grace working here?” Maggie asked her mother.
    “She’s just a spec of a thing, about the size of Hannah at that age,” Bonnie said. “To tell you the truth I don’t think she could do the heavy work. She looks malnourished.”
    “You could certainly remedy that,” Maggie said.
    “Best not to get involved,” Bonnie said. “Jacob Branduff is a mean old coot. I’d walk three blocks out of my way not to have to give him the time of day.”
    “You heard she found an old man dying on their porch this morning.”
    “Some foreigner,” Bonnie said. “Nothing to do with us.”
    “Now, what would Jesus say?” Maggie said.
    Bonnie took a dishtowel and flicked her daughter on the backside.
    “Don’t you preach to me about Jesus,” Bonnie said. “Lightning will strike your tongue.”
    “What’ve I done now?”
    “Plenty,” Bonnie said. “You can’t tell me the chief of police isn’t sneaking up your backstairs every night and then away before dawn.”
    “He comes up the front stairs and doesn’t leave until after breakfast,” Maggie said. “And there’s no sneaking involved. What would be the point in this town?”
    “You should be ashamed,” Bonnie said. “I raised you better than that.”
    “And you and Dad are such great role models for marital happiness?”
    “Only a fool thinks marriage will make a woman happy,” Bonnie said.
    “Exactly my point,” Maggie said. “So why do it?”
    “It’s what the Lord wants us to do,” Bonnie said. “Cleave unto each other. Be fruitful and multiply.”
    “Well, we may eventually get married but Scott and I aren’t having any children.”
    “What?” Bonnie demanded, and Maggie cringed, knowing what was coming. “What do you mean you and Scott aren’t having any children? I know you’re not a spring chicken but it’s not too late. Mrs. Deacon had Pip when she was 40.”
    “And look how he turned out,” Maggie said.
    “Why are you so intent on breaking my heart?” Bonnie asked. “You know how badly I want grandchildren. Your brother Sean’s not likely to give me any and Lord knows how Patrick’s avoided it, but so far he has.”
    “You have Brian’s children.”
    “I want you to have children,” Bonnie said. “I want your grandchildren; it’s only natural. What have you got against children?”
    Maggie stopped rolling the dough, turned, and looked her mother straight in the eye.
    “Scott can’t give me children,” Maggie said. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Oh,” Bonnie said, and Maggie could see her mother’s brain recalculating like she was the GPS for Maggie’s life.
    Maggie knew her mother well enough to know her thought processes. Bonnie adored Scott and had wanted nothing more than for Maggie to marry him. She was so close to getting what she wanted, but if they couldn’t give her grandchildren, did she still want it?
    “Well,” Bonnie finally said. “They just grow up and break your heart. You’re probably better off.”
    Maggie smiled, shook her head, and turned back to her task. That was about as good of a reaction as she could hope for.
    “You could adopt,” Bonnie said.
    “No,” Maggie said. “Just, no.”
     
     
    Sal Delvecchio