“Fast, too. She wore her skirts way too short in high
school. No wonder she got into trouble.”
Judith stared at her mother. “This is a different Ingrid. She runs the state B&B association. She’s my
age, not yours.”
Gertrude’s small eyes narrowed. “You just think she
is. Ingrid Sack’s been dyeing her hair for years. Had a
face-lift, too. More than once, I heard.”
“Mother,” Judith said patiently, “Ingrid Sack—I believe her married name was Grissom—has been dead
for ten years.”
Now it was Gertrude’s turn to stare. “No kidding? I
wonder how she looked in her casket. All tarted up, I
bet. Funny I didn’t hear about it at the time.”
There was no point in telling Gertrude that she’d undoubtedly read Ingrid’s obituary in the newspaper.
Read it with glee, as the old lady always did when she
discovered she’d outlived yet another contemporary.
Judith was used to her mother’s patchy memory.
“I’m stuck,” Judith announced, flipping the pages of
the American art calendar she’d been given by her
cousin Renie. August’s Black Hollyhock, Blue Lark-
4
Mary Daheim
spur by Georgia O’Keeffe was a sumptuous sight compared with the stark, deliberately mundane realism of
Louis Charles Moeller’s Sculptor’s Studio, which heralded October. Vibrant natural beauty versus taxing,
gritty work. Maybe the painting was an omen. “Come
Halloween, we’re going to be invaded by Hollywood.”
Gertrude pulled a rumpled Kleenex from the pocket
of her baggy orange cardigan. “Hollywood?” she
echoed before gustily blowing her nose. “You mean
like the Gish sisters and Tom Mix and Mary Pickford?”
“Uh . . . like that,” Judith agreed, sitting down at the
kitchen table across from her mother. “A famous producer is premiering his new movie here in town because it was filmed in the area. He’s bringing his
entourage—at least some of it—to Hillside Manor.”
“Entourage?” Gertrude looked puzzled. “I thought
you didn’t allow pets.”
“I don’t,” Judith replied. “I meant his associates.
Speaking of pets,” she said sharply to Sweetums as the
cat leaped onto the kitchen table, “beat it. You don’t
prowl the furniture.”
Sweetums was batting at the lid of the sheep-shaped
cookie jar. The cat didn’t take kindly to Judith’s efforts
to pick him up and set him down.
“Feisty,” Gertrude remarked as Sweetums broke
free and ran off in a blur of orange-and-white fur. “You
got to admit it, Toots, that cat has spunk.”
Judith gave her mother an ironic smile. “So do you.
You’re kindred spirits.”
“He gets around better than I do,” Gertrude said,
turning stiffly to watch Sweetums disappear with a
bang of the screen door. The old lady reached into her
SILVER SCREAM
5
pocket again, rummaged around, and scowled.
“Where’d my candies go?”
“You probably ate them, Mother,” Judith said, getting up from the table. “There are some ginger cookies
in the jar. They may be getting a bit stale. It’s been too
warm to bake the last few days.”
The summer had indeed been warm, though not unbearable. As a native Pacific Northwesterner, Judith’s
tolerance for heat dropped lower every year. Fortunately, there was only a week left of August.
“I should call in person to cancel the displaced
guests’ reservations,” Judith said, scrolling down the
screen on her computer monitor. “Let’s see—the Kidds
from Wisconsin and the Izards from Iowa.”
“Those are guests? They sound like innards to me.”
Gertrude was struggling to get out of her chair. “You
got two lonesome old cookies in that jar,” she declared.
“I suppose that hog of a Serena was here and gobbled
them up.”
Judith reached out to give her mother a hand. “It
wasn’t Serena,” she said, referring to her cousin who
was more familiarly known as Renie. “It was little
Mac. Remember, he was here with Mike and Kristin
and Baby Joe the day before yesterday.”
Gertrude paused in her laborious passage from the
kitchen table to the rear hallway. “Baby Joe!” she exclaimed, waving a hand in derision. “Why did Mike
and his wife have to name the new kid after
Lunkhead?”
“Lunkhead” was what Gertrude called Judith’s second husband, Joe Flynn. “Lunkhead” was also what
she called her daughter’s first husband, Dan McMonigle.
Mac was the nickname of the older grandson, whose
6
Mary Daheim
given name was Dan, after the man who had actually
raised Mike. Though Judith had first been engaged to
Joe, she had married Dan. It was only in the last year
that her son had come to realize that Joe, not Dan, was
his biological father. Thus, Mike had honored both
men by giving their names to his own sons.
“Mike thinks the world of Joe,” Judith replied, escorting her mother to the back door. She didn’t elaborate. Gertrude had never admitted that her daughter
had gotten pregnant out of wedlock. To Judith’s
mother, sex before marriage was as unthinkable as
chocolate without sugar.
They had reached the porch steps when Joe Flynn
pulled into the driveway in his cherished antique MG,
top down, red paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
“Ladies,” he called, getting out of the car with his cotton jacket slung over one shoulder. “You’re a vision.”
“You mean a sight for sore eyes,” Gertrude shot
back.
“Do I?” Gold flecks danced in Joe’s green eyes as
he kissed his wife’s cheek, then attempted to brush his
mother-in-law’s forehead with his lips.
Gertrude jerked away, almost throwing Judith off
balance. “Baloney!” the old girl cried. “You just want
to get my goat. As usual.” She plunked her walker on
the ground and shook off Judith’s hand. “I’m heading
for my earthly coffin. Send my supper on time, which
is five, not six or six-thirty.” Gertrude clumped off
toward the converted toolshed, her place of selfimposed exile since she had long ago declared she
wouldn’t live under the same roof as Joe Flynn.
“Ah,” Joe said, a hand under Judith’s elbow, “your
mother seems in fine spirits today.”
SILVER SCREAM
7
“I can’t tell the difference,” Judith muttered. “She’s
always mean to you.”
“It keeps her going,” Joe said, hanging his jacket on
a peg in the hall. “Beer would do the same for me.
Have we got any of that Harp left or did Mike drink it
all?”
“He didn’t drink as much as Kristin did,” Judith
replied, going to the fridge. “But I think there are a
couple of bottles left. Kristin, being of Amazonian proportions, has a much greater capacity than other mortals.” She glanced up at the old schoolroom clock,
which showed ten minutes to five. “You’re early. How
come?”
“I found Sir Francis Bacon,” Joe responded, sitting
down in the chair that Gertrude had vacated. “How the
hell can you lose an English sheepdog? They’re huge.”
“Where was he?” Judith asked, handing Joe a bottle