The doorbell rang. She jumped at the sound. Her first fear was that lawyer son had not believed Mr. Randolph’s excuses for not coming to Virginia for Thanksgiving and had come to get him. Then, with annoyance, she realized that it was probably Agnes Stokes, sneaking around to find out why Gilly had skipped school for two days.
But when she opened the door, it was to a small, plump woman whose gray hair peaked out from under a close-fitting black felt hat. She wore black gloves and a black-and-tweed overcoat, which was a little too long to be fashionable, and carried a slightly worn black alligator bag over one arm. The woman, who was an inch or so shorter than she was, looked up into Gilly’s face with a sort of peculiar expression, whether frightened or hungry, Gilly couldn’t have said. At any rate, it made her shift uncomfortably and push at her bangs until she remembered two of Trotter’s trusty sentences for emergency use and offered both of them.
“We’re not buying anything today, thank you, and we’re faithful members of the Baptist Church.” She hurried to close the door.
“No, wait, please,” the lady said. “Galadriel—Hopkins?”
Gilly yanked the door back open. “Who are you?” she blurted out, as awkwardly as William Ernest might have.
“I’m”—It was the woman’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I’m—I suppose I’m your grandmother.”
Somehow Gilly would have been less surprised if the woman had said fairy godmother.
“May I come in?”
Dumbly Gilly stepped back and let her.
The sound of snoring poured forth from the dining room. Gilly willed the woman not to look, not to stare at the funny little brown face poked up above the faded quilt, the mouth gaped and trembling with each noisy breath.
But, of course, the woman looked, jerked her head slightly at the sight, and then turned quickly back to Gilly.
“Gilly, honey, who is it?” Damn! Trotter must have heard the bell.
“OK, Trotter, I got it,” Gilly yelled, as she tugged at her shrunken T-shirt (the last half-clean one) and tried to make it cover her navel. “Want to sit down?” she asked the visitor.
“Yes. Please.”
Gilly led the way into the living room and backed up to the couch, sticking a hand out toward the brown chair.
Plunk. They both sat down in unison like string puppets, the lady right on the edge of the chair so that her short feet could touch the floor.
“So—” The woman was bobbing her little black hat. Did anyone in the world wear hats these days? “So—”
Gilly was trying to take it in. This—this little old lady in the old-fashioned hat and coat—was Courtney’s mother? In all Gilly’s fantasies, Courtney had never had a mother. She had always been—existing from before time—like a goddess in perpetual perfection.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You are Galadriel?” Her voice was Southern but smooth, like silk to Trotter’s burlap.
Gilly nodded.
“My daughter—” The woman fumbled in her purse and brought out a letter. “My daughter left home many—” She snapped the purse shut and raised her eyes to meet Gilly’s puzzled ones. “—many years ago. I—my husband and I never…I’m sorry…”
Helplessly Gilly watched the little woman stumbling for words, trying to tell a painful story and not knowing how.
“My husband—” She tried to smile. “Your grandfather died—nearly twelve years ago.”
Perhaps she should say something, thought Gilly. “Jeez, that’s too bad.”
“Yes. Yes, it was.” The woman was pushing hard against the words to keep from crying. Gilly knew the trick. Oh, boy, how well she knew that one. “We—I tried to contact Courtney, your mother, at the time, of course. But—I was not able to. In fact—” The pitch of her voice went up. She stopped trying to talk and took a handkerchief from her purse, barely touching each nostril before putting it away.
Go ahead and blow, honey. It’ll make you feel better. Trotter would have said it, but Gilly couldn’t quite get it out.
“As a matter of fact—” The woman had recovered herself enough to continue. “As a matter of fact, this letter—this letter is the first direct word we’ve—I’ve had from my daughter in thirteen years.”
“You’re kidding,” said Gilly. She felt sorry even though the woman’s pain didn’t seem to have anything to do with her.
“I didn’t even know she’d had a ba—Wouldn’t you think she’d want her own mother to know she’d had a baby?”
This was obviously the point where she, Gilly, was supposed to come into the story, but it still seemed far too remote, like something that had happened once to a friend of a friend. She tried to nod in a sympathetic manner.