“Never had a whole lot of it. Most of my time is spent at home. Housework. Chores. I read books. That’s about it.”
“You’re killing me here. You know that, right?” I merge onto the interstate, rolling up my window. “Is there a theme park around here? A mall? Anything?” A big green sign a quarter mile down the road tells us we’re just fifteen miles away from the birthplace and lifelong home of Mormon poetess Elizabeth Wagner. “You know her?”
“I know of her, yes,” she says.
“You want to go see where she was born? It’s not much better than antiquing, but I get the feeling you don’t get out much, so I’m willing to go there, and you don’t even have to blow me.”
“I wouldn’t have blown you anyway, but yes, we can go there.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, and I think she’s kind of excited.
We follow the signs to a sleepy little town called Glen Oak that seems to encircle a small lake. About a mile down the road, just past a handful of boat ramps, is an old house stitched together with mudded timber. A white sign out front says: HOME OF ELIZABETH WAGNER.
“Found it.” I shut off the ignition and climb out.
Waverly runs to the sign, reading the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”
A red sedan is parked outside the house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”
I jog up to the front door and knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to follow me.
“What are you doing?” She whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.
“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out. The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an old timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”
The footsteps move quicker until we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down gingerly, the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.
“We’re closed.” Her voice is gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.
“I know, but we’re just passing through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It would mean the world to her if you—”
“Twenty minutes,” she says. “And don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”
Waverly’s mouth parts into a smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.
“See?” I say. “Ask for what you want and you just might get it.”
She scampers off toward the living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and inkpot sits behind velvet ropes.
“This was her desk,” Waverly says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”
You’d think we were touring Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”
She doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this humble dwelling.
“She had twelve children,” Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”
“How many sister wives?” I tease.
“Several. Eight, I think? She was the first, though.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where she ogles teacups Elizabeth Wagner once drank from as well as a pie pan she used to bake her famous boysenberry pies with.
The cleaning lady tromps down the stairs, a plastic caddy and feather duster in her hands. “I’m done upstairs. As soon as I finish down here, I have to lock up. Consider this your ten-minute warning.”
We head up, the staircase barely two feet wide and steeper than shit. The upstairs contains a few small bedrooms—one appearing to be a master bedroom and the others filled with makeshift bunk beds and covered in ancient quilts.
“This is where she slept,” Waverly sighs, running her palm against the multi-colored fabric that covers a bed.
“Lay on it.” I shrug. “No one will know but you and me.”
She swats at me. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”
“Do it, Waverly. I’m sure if Elizabeth were here, she’d be more than happy to entertain you in her home.”
Waverly laughs. “I highly doubt that. She allegedly wasn’t the nicest person, but man, could she string together some beautiful sentences.” She leans over the bed, inspecting every square inch of the quilt as if she’s fascinated. “I bet she sewed this herself. She was an avid quilt-maker. Best in the county.”
I take the opportunity to gently shove Waverly, forcing her on the bed. “Oops.”