Saffee says, with disgust in her voice, “Did you see Mom, April? She’s painting the Norway table again.”
“Yeah, I saw her. It’s gonna be green.”
“No, not green, April.” Saffee mimics Joann’s I-know-a-new-word voice. “It’s vomit green.”
“The king is having a ball!” April chortles as she dashes through the kitchen one afternoon. “The king is having a ball!”
She turns around and demands of Saffee, “Wash the floor, Cinderella! The king is having a ball!” and scampers away. April has recently seen a Disney matinee and ever since, her play-acting has been insufferable, at least to her big sister. Saffee looks up from her Etch-a-Sketch and appeals to Joann.
“Mother, can’t you make her stop? She’s bothering me.” But Joann’s expression says, “Isn’t she cute?” Saffee can’t help but notice that her mother’s cares curiously fade somewhat in the presence of her younger daughter’s merriment.
Later, when Nels comes home, April is still at it. “Dance with me, Prince!” she calls, stretching her arms toward him. Nels looks quizzical and scratches his head.
Joann comes from the kitchen, laughing. “April, haven’t I told you before your father has two left feet? Here”—she grabs April’s waving arms—“I’ll dance with you.” Giggling and singing, the two twirl together across the living room and out onto the screen porch.
The Miller’s Ford residents who venture to make Joann’s acquaintance are, for a while, fascinated by her posturing ways and unexpected pronouncements. But it doesn’t take long for her singular manner to create a space between them. A young grocery store employee one day asks Joann, with Saffee by her side, if she would like him to carry her two bags of groceries to her car. Joann doesn’t drive. With an upward twitch of her head she delivers an outlandish retort.
“Alas, my chariot awaiteth not at the door, young man, and my strength comes from sources you are obviously unfamiliar with.” She sweeps a bag from the counter and, with a self-satisfied snicker, floats with majesty to the door. She is oblivious of his puzzled look, as well as gasps from two middle-aged women in the checkout line.
Saffee’s face burns. She snatches the other bag from the checkout counter and hurries out. What fantasy world does her mother live in? Why didn’t she just say, “No, thank you”?
People of the town, unsure how to cross the divide between stable and unstable, learn to avoid this strange woman. Neither they, nor her family, nor Joann herself, can fathom the nuances of a darkening mind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SEWING CLUB
1950
Saffee tightens toe clamps around her saddle shoes and buckles brown leather straps. The cement bridge spanning Blue River is ideal for roller skating. Swinging her arms back and forth, Saffee scrapes and slides along the sidewalk, bumping over every crack. The skate key sways on its string and lightly thumps against her chest.
On the sidewalk ahead, Saffee recognizes Mrs. O’Reilly, the mother of a fourth-grade classmate. Saffee drags a front wheel. The narrow concrete walkway, and Mrs. O’Reilly’s deluxe size, oblige them both to stop to avoid collision. Saffee would have preferred to zip quickly by. Mrs. O’Reilly greets her pleasantly and admires her polka-dotted shirt and matching shorts.
“So cute. Does your mother sew your clothes?”
Saffee nods.
“What’s your mother’s name? I wonder if she’d like to join the sewing club. I’ll call her.”
At supper, Saffee mentions that Mrs. O’Reilly might call.
“A sewing club? Hmm,” Joann says. “More likely a gossip club, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you go?” Nels urges. “It’d be good fer ya ta get out, meet some other women.”
To Saffee’s surprise, Joann does attend the sewing club. Once.
The following morning at breakfast the girls are eager to know about her uncharacteristic foray into small-town society.
Joann, holding her coffee cup with a raised pinky, tells them that it was at a Mrs. Birdwell’s house where everything was “hoity-toity.” Mrs. Birdwell, she says, collects ceramic parrots of various sizes and colors. Joann laughs with amusement and butters her toast. “Really bad taste.”
When asked about the food, she grins and reports that there was pink punch, way too sweet, and little square cakes called petits fours. It seemed no one knew the French pronunciation that Joann later found in the dictionary.
The women worked on “silly stuff,” like crocheted doilies and pot holders with ruffles. Joann doubts that they know how to make useful things, like clothes and curtains. She had let down a hem on one of Saffee’s skirts.