A TALL GLASS OF LEMONADE ON A HOT DAY By Cindy Knoebel

The burly sheriff, pressed uniform the color of gravy, knocks on the frame of the tattered screen door.

“Mrs. Ordwell?” Cups a hand around his eyes, squints into the interior gloom. A basket of laundry on the floor next to a sofa covered with a flowered sheet. A rocking chair. A faded rag rug, shades of blue. “Mr. Ordwell?” 

Shifts from foot to foot. Pushes back his white cowboy hat, swipes a hand across his damp, puckered forehead. 

Patter of bare feet on pine boards. 

“Hey mister.” Elfin girl, around six years old, hair in pigtails tied with red bows. Pink cotton dress like a sack, two pockets stitched onto the front. Skittery eyes.

“Hey yourself. You’re Delia, right?”

The girl fingers a braid, sucks her lower lip. 

“Your gramma or grampa home?”

“Gran,” she shrieks. “Man here.” 

“Get away from the door, now,” a raspy voice commands. “Go upstairs and play with that new doll I got you.”

The girl turns and runs away. Pigtails bounce. The hem of the dress spins about her skinny knees like cotton candy.

 The sheriff removes his dark glasses and polishes them with his tie before shoving them into his shirt pocket. To his left, a porch swing dangles, lopsided, from its chains; an orange tomcat curled up in the center opens an eye.

Clickety-clack of heels on wood and Ruth Ordwell appears. Hands flutter around silver hair pinned behind her neck. Wide-spaced eyes the color of her denim skirt. The age-spotted skin of her face pulls tautly against high cheekbones. 

“Sheriff Clauson,” she states.

“Mrs. Ordwell.”

She blinks against the glare only partially blocked by the sheriff’s bulk. “Hot one, ain’t it?”

“That it is. And the air conditioner in my car quit me this morning.”

She tsks her tongue in sympathy. “Lemonade?”

“No thanks.” Hooks his thumbs in his belt and rocks back on his heels. “George here?”

She cracks open the screen door, casts a backward glance before slipping through. The sheriff steps aside, nearly stumbling against a terracotta pot filled with half-dead geraniums. 

Ruth brushes past him, scents of talcum powder and tobacco in her wake. Leans against a post with arms crossed, considers the green waves of tassel-topped corn stretching to the sun-soaked horizon. The only break in the panorama is the long gravel driveway that slices through the field like a knife. It terminates in a patch of bare land next to the house where the sheriff’s cruiser is parked next to a white pickup truck.

“George went into town early this morning. No telling when he’ll be back.”

“I spoke to your daughter, Mrs. Ordwell.”

“I ‘spect you did, Sheriff Clauson.” 

She yanks a pack of cigarettes from her skirt pocket, shakes one out and sticks it in the corner of her mouth. 

The Sheriff studies her. “She’s mighty worried.”

Ruth fumbles a lighter out of the same pocket and flicks a quiver of flame to the tip of the cigarette. 

“You ought not to have done it, Mrs. Ordwell. Patty says she came by here ‘bout an hour ago and you shook a broomstick at her through the window. That true?”

The lighter and cigarette pack disappear back into the skirt pocket. She takes a long drag, exhales. Tilts her head up. Miles overhead, a plane skims across the bleached yellow sky.

“That plane there?” Points her cigarette up, traces contrails. “Heading to Chicago. From Philadelphia.” Turns and smiles with stained horsey teeth beneath mirthless eyes. “You can find all the planes, where they’re goin’ and where they come from, on the Internet. You ever been to Chicago, Sheriff?”

“I have indeed. My wife and I got married in Chicago. Thirty-two years ago.”

“That a fact.” Ruth nods, keeps nodding, the smile fixed on her face like a mask. “Always hankered to go west.”

“Mrs. Ordwell—Ruth—I’m here to take that little girl home.” Sunlight glints off the silver points of his badge.

She stubs out the cigarette into an empty cat food tin sitting on the porch rail. “You want to know why I warned off Patty? She showed up here drunk or high or who knows, maybe both. Think I’d let my only grandchild get in a car with her drunk momma at the wheel?”

Sheriff shakes his head. “Shouldn’t have taken her in the first place.”

Ruth takes three steps toward the screen door, knee joints crackling like ice cubes in a glass. “I need a lemonade. Can’t take the heat like I used to. Ain’t we got time for a cool drink? Or maybe you’d fancy coffee?”

The sheriff checks his watch, sighs. “Go on inside and have your lemonade. I’m gonna call Patty, tell her everything’s all right and that we’ll be on the road in a few.”

Ruth reaches for the door handle, stops, and wheezes. The wheeze explodes into a fit of coughing that wracks her body, folding her over at the waist. Roused, the cat jumps off the porch swing.

The hacking subsides. She catches her breath, wipes her mouth. “How ‘bout this. When you talk to Patty? Tell her George and I will fetch Delia back after lunch. No reason to send that child off by herself off in a police car. Scare her to death.”

“Now, Ruth …”

“Dan, I ain’t funning you. I promise. You tell Patty that. Tell her we’ll be there by twelve-thirty. Scout’s honor.” She makes a mock salute before disappearing back inside the house, screen door slamming behind her like a gunshot. At the foot of the stairs she pauses, listening. All quiet. 

She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a tall glass filled with lemonade when the sheriff lowers himself into the chair next to her, patches of sweat on his shirt. 

“You ought not to have done it,” he repeats. Sets his cowboy hat on the table. 

“Go on with you.” Flaps a hand at him like a buzzy fly. “I was dropping off a pie, and that child was all alone in the backyard, dirty as a rag picker. Hungry, too, I ‘spect.” 

“Patty was home, you know.”

“Yeah. Probably passed out. Lemme show you something.” Rises and slides around the corner into the living room. Seconds pass. She returns with two photos in her hand. Slaps them face up on the kitchen table like poker cards.

“Lookit.” Stabs a finger at one of them. “That’s Patty, about the same age as Delia is now.” The stabbing finger shifts to the second photo. “Took this one myself just two weeks ago.” Fixes a slitty-eyed stare on him. “Gonna do better with this one. Promised myself.”

The sheriff leans across the table and considers the photos. Two pixie-faced little girls with gap-toothed smiles. “Mighty strong resemblance, I’d say.” 

He’s antsy to get going, to quit the house and its family squabbles. Rises and plucks his hat from the table, fingers the brim. “Patty loves Delia.”    

“Huh. Mothers don’t always love their daughters.”  

“Most of the time, they do.” Clamps his hat onto his head. “I told Patty that Delia would be home by noon. If she’s not, she’s gonna call me.”

***

George Ordwell shambles into the house shortly after noon. Makes a beeline for the rocking chair, eases his lanky frame into it like a hot bath. Shuts his eyes and groans as his bones settle into place. 

“George? That you?” A holler from overhead. 

“Yep.” Hears the tap-tap-tap of shoes descending stairs. Doesn’t bother to open his eyes.

“George, you ain’t got time for a nap,” his wife says, shaking his shoulder. “We got to get going.”

“’Scuse me?” Eyes blink open.

“Now, I’ve got everything ready, a bag for you and one for me. We can pick up things for Delia later.”

She comes into focus, looming over him, hands on hips. Her breathing is labored and perspiration rims the underarms of her blouse.

“Don’t got a clue as to what you’re talking about.” 

“George, know how you’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon? Well, that’s what we’re gonna do. You, me and Delia.” Sets herself down on the couch where a rumpled map lies open. Yellow highlighter next to it.

A squeal erupts from overhead. 

“Delia’s here?”

Ruth jerks her head towards the stairs. “Picked her up this morning,” she says. “You don’t want to know the half of it. Point is, we gotta go. Now.” 

“I think I best call Patty.” Stabs a hand into a hip pocket, pulls out a flip phone. 

“No!”  She scuttles up from the couch and dives for the phone with prying fingers. 

Yanks his arm back. “What the hell…?”

“It’s now or never, George.”

“You’re talking crazy, woman. Why you so riled up?”

“Because … because … it just come to me, that’s all. It’s the Lord’s will, I believe it, truly I do.” Phlegm rattles in her throat; she hacks a cough and swallows, grimacing. 

“Ruth, don’t do this.” 

“Don’t do what? Save our only granddaughter from her no-account momma?”

“What, by stealing her? And how long you think we can hide? They hunt us down, arrest us and throw us in jail. Called kidnapping, Ruth.” 

“Kidnapping? Our own flesh and blood? Nonsense!” Grabs the map and shakes it in his face. “See? I’ve got it all planned out. Arizona only a couple days’ drive from Kansas. And we can stop in Amarillo and pay a visit to Rosie.” Begins fiddling with the map, folding it this way and that, trying to follow the creases.

 “You tell your sister about this fool idea of yours?”

“Reckon we’ll call her from the road.”

George tilts the rocker forward. “No. We ain’t taking that little girl anywhere. She needs to be where …” fumbles for the right words. “… where she can get the help she needs.”

“Pshaw. Only help that child needs is a stable family, not that whoring trainwreck of a mother!” 

“That ain’t fair. Why, last month? At the pancake breakfast? Patty seemed just fine. Said so yourself.” 

“You sure got a short memory. How ‘bout that night when the police were called? She strung out on drugs with her boyfriend, the two of them screaming and carrying on, Delia locked in the bathroom with the lights off! Thank God for them neighbors.”  

George scratches a spot behind his left ear. “You speak to her today?”

“Yes.” Fans herself with the folded map. “Told her Delia would stay the night, then we’d run her home after breakfast.”

“Patty’s good with that?”

“Heavens yes! Why wouldn’t she be?” Stops fanning, lowers map. “But, George, here’s the thing— if we leave now, we can be in Amarillo tonight!”

“That so? And after the Grand Canyon—if we even got that far—what then?” 

“Why … why … by that time, we’ll have a plan. There’s County Services. We can file papers …” Voice trails off, eyes slide from his.

“You ain’t thinking straight, woman. No way we can take care of Delia full time. You with your lungs and me with my back and … hey, hello there, little lady! You just up from a nap?” 

Delia stands halfway down the stairs, leg twined around a spindle. “I’m hungry,” she whines.

Ruth drops the map onto the couch, jumps up, face lit up in a way that makes George’s heart clench. “Come on down, honey-child, and I’ll fix you a sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly?”

Delia drags herself down the stairs, narrow shoulders stooped. Pink dress crumpled around her body like old wrapping paper. Red bow on her left braid is gone. 

“Where’s momma?” she mumbles. 

Ruth reaches out a hand to touch Delia, but the girl jerks away. Stomps her foot. Glares at her grandmother.

“HUNGRY, HUNGRY, HUNGRY!” she screams. Takes off like a whippet, running circles around the living room. A framed photo topples from a sideboard, laundry tumbles from an overturned basket. Ruth cowers by the stairs.

George catches the child in his arms as she rounds the couch. “There, there,” he croons. “How ‘bout I make you that sandwich?” 

Delia stiffens for a moment. Mouth wide open and slack, a bubble of saliva at the corner. George carries her into the kitchen. 

Ruth busies herself tidying up the room. Photo back on sideboard, rug arranged just so by the coffee table. Doesn’t hear the car tires crackle on the gravel driveway.

Screen door bangs open. Ruth pivots and faces her daughter.

“Where is she?” Patty asks. Face as red as a tomato. She’s dressed in scrubs patterned with bumblebees, hair scraped back in a ponytail and nails bitten to the quick.

“My goodness, like to give me a heart attack, barging in like that!” Hand at throat, mock-frightened. “Delia is having a sandwich. In the kitchen. With George.” Thinks of the packed bags upstairs. Should’ve left before George came home, just she and her grandbaby. 

“Momma!” Delia rushes into the room, wraps her arms around her mother’s hips. 

“Hi sweetheart.” Relief and exhaustion etched on her face. “Are you ready … oh, shit!”

A puddle is forming between Delia’s legs. Sharp tang of ammonia. 

Patty pulls her daughter away from the puddle. Squats down, holding Delia’s arms. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell momma you had to potty?” To Ruth: “Why isn’t she wearing a diaper?”

“We haven’t had any accidents … not a one! Not until … you … arrived!” Dizzy, suddenly. Breathless. 

Patty hustles Delia upstairs. “Where do you keep the diapers?” she calls out. 

“On the bathroom counter,” George shouts. Dishtowel in his hand, he hunkers down onto his hands and knees, sponging up urine. Ruth slumps onto the couch. 

George gets up from the floor, walks toward the kitchen. Face like a slab of cut granite. 

By the time Patty and Delia return, Ruth has filled a pitcher with lemonade and placed it on a white doily on the coffee table. Three glasses on cork coasters.  

“There was no need to come here. We was just about to leave.” Nice as could be. Fills a glass from the pitcher. “We were having such fun, I done lost track of the time.”

“Delia, honey, why don’t you go find Gramps, okay?” Patty gives her daughter a little push towards the kitchen. Waits until she’s out of sight, then swivels toward her mother. 

“I could have you arrested,” she hisses. “I should have you arrested. The nerve—taking Delia right from her very own house! And what you told the sheriff? A big fat lie. Haven’t touched a drop for seventy-eight days.”

“Well, how was I to know?” Raspy voice, righteous. “One minute you’re on the wagon, the next minute you’re off … I was only thinking of Delia. Just wanted her to have a home-cooked meal, spend some time here at the farm.”

“That emphysema must have reached your brain, the way you’re talking. That is a special needs child! You know what that means?”

“She was alone in the backyard, and filthy, and …”  

“My backyard is perfectly safe. And it’s okay for her to be dirty! She was playing in her sandbox! The only way I knew it was you who took her? That pie you left on the back steps!” Spitting words like nails.

“Well, everything’s all right now, ain’t it? Can’t you just calm down, set for a spell?”

Patty crosses her arms. “Saw the bags upstairs. You and pops going on a trip?”

“Maybe.”

“Uh huh. If I hadn’t shown up …”

“Aw, go on with you! Did cross my mind that Delia could use a vacation. But, cross my heart, we was just about to get in the car and take her home, like we promised Dan.”

“Delia!” Patty calls. “C’mon, time to go!” To her mother, even-voiced: “Now get this straight: you ever set foot on my property again without my say-so, I’m calling Dan and have you arrested for trespassing.”

Delia trots into the room. Purple jelly on pink dress. 

“Sure, that’s fine, just fine. Let’s see, there’s the county fair next weekend … what say we all go together? I can pack us a picnic.” Babbling now, panicked. 

Patty grabs Delia’s hand. “You stay away from my daughter, you hear?” Pulls her out the screen door. Seconds later, car doors slam, then the crunch on driveway grit as her car speeds away.

Ruth perches on the edge of the rocking chair. Dishes clatter as George cleans up the kitchen. Air so greasy with heat and humidity she feels like she’s been dipped in candle wax. 

The map still on the couch.

Ruth leans over, just manages to snatch it without getting up. She’s unfolded it and her face is hidden behind its plain white backside when she hears George settle on the couch with a chuff. 

“George.”

“Yep?”

“Ain’t gonna let this go. You know full well it’s only a matter of time before it all goes to hell in a hand basket.” The rocking chair begins to jiggle. “Going to County Services first thing tomorrow morning. Find out about filing them papers. Custody.” 

“Aw… now, Ruth.” George reaches for a glass of lemonade. Gone in two gulps. “Say, how ‘bout you hand me that when you’re done?” Speaking to the back of the map gripped in his wife’s hands. 

The rocking chair seesaws back and forth. 

“Maybe the two of us go see Rosie.” Wheedling. “Talk about it on the way.”

The map dips. Red-rimmed eyes meet his. “Ain’t gonna let this go, George.”

“That’s fine. We leave tomorrow, maybe day after. Work it all out on the drive.”

The map rises again, eyes disappear. The rocking chair slows. Then: “Saturday be a good day. I got vegetables to can. And you got to fix that broken window in the back.”

“Yep. Saturday be a good day.” 

The rocking chair stills. 

Cindy Knoebel’s short stories have appeared in a variety of literary magazines, and she was awarded the 2018 Grand Prize for Fiction from Haunted Waters Press. Currently, Cindy is the host/facilitator for the Marin Writers Circle, which has over 160 members.