A Sweet Resolution

The Sweet Resolution
© Edmund Gee
February 2008
Revised March 2012

Being friends has great rewards; sometimes financial rewards.

It was a quaint little gingerbread house. For over a hundred years, the house faced Loblolly Lane. To be exact, Joshua Chapman had the house built at twenty-one Loblolly Lane in the year Eighteen Hundred and Eighty-One. An elderly, bitter woman now lived in the house. When school children walked past the house, they would be on the lookout for the mean-spirited woman. For they knew that when she was sweeping her walkway, she would chase after them, using her straw broom, attempting to sweep them off the sidewalk.

Sometimes the children would tease the woman, playing “Chicken” with the straw broom. The woman could not stand straight, because of her old age. Darkness and anger brewed in her beady eyes. Her stringy gray hair hung from her head like limp vines. The gray was foreboding like baleful winter clouds.

All the children knew that the woman was angry, sweeping them away from her walkway. Most of the children regarded her broom with great caution. They would hop out onto Loblolly Lane to escape her menacing terror. It was Jemma, however, who did not fear the woman so much as she disliked her evil straw sweeper. It seemed to have a life all of its own.

Jemma asked, “Sarah, did you see her broom? Did you see what that wicked broom was doing?” Jemma looked back to see a dust plume. She could hear the rough scratch-scratching of the thick straw bristles scrubbing the concrete.

“No. Not really. I was jumping onto the road because she was sweeping us off the sidewalk.”

“No. The woman wasn’t pushing the broom. It can see us. It was staring at me. I know it. And then I saw all of its legs running after us.”

“You mean, the long sweepy-thingy’s?”

“Thingy’s? No. The bristles. The bristles have feet. I saw them. They started were running after us; to sweep us onto the street!”

Sarah looked curiously at her friend Jemma, and then turned around to see the old woman carrying the broom back into her dilapidated house. “We need to hurry to school. Remember, we’ve got that math test today,” Sarah said in a rather sour tone, emphasizing the word, that.

As the years rolled by, grade-by-grade, the girls walked the same path to school. Sometimes a new boy or girl would walk with them. But, by the next school year they would have moved away.

Jemma’s mom admonished, “Don’t you ever talk to that old woman! Do you understand me?” Her mom warned.

One afternoon her mom shook her finger angrily at Jemma. “You girls stay away from that nasty old woman. She’ll hurt you if you get too close.”

One morning, Jemma’s dad, with a fortuitous slip of his tongue warned, “Old… old Bertha… I mean, that woman will sweep you into the gutter if you don’t watch out.”

“Dad? Bertha? Is that her name?”

“Never mind about the name. I… I only used that name because… well it sounds cantankerous, like her.”

Jemma’s mind placed the name of Bertha into a storage bin in her brain; a bin holding all of the memories of Loblolly Lane.

As the children walked to school and home, the old tried sweeping them off the sidewalk. She would cackle, “You little monsters! Walk in the street. You’re making my sidewalk dirty!”

-- Please -- flash forward with me to New Year's Eve, 2008 -- fifteen years later.

It was New Year’s Eve and a couple things had happened to Jemma. She had graduated from college and had turned twenty-three. Her parents were hosting a New Year’s Eve party.

Her dad was asking his guests what their New Year’s resolutions would be. Over the din of talk and music, Jemma could hear various answers, such as, ” I’m going to loose fifty pounds.” and “I’m going to finally take that trip to Ireland.” and “I’m going to read a book a month.” and “I’m planning to learn ten new songs on my violin.”

It was Jemma’s turn as her dad slid in front of her, sloshing several surges of champagne from his goblet. With a huge, toothy smile, asked, “And, Jemma! What will you’re New Year’s resolution be this year?”

Several people gathered close to listen. A gawker, named Charlie, who had sipped too much champagne, offered these slurred words, “I’ll bettt sh...she wantsss to git a j...job…bb.”

“Well?” Her dad asked.

Jemma looked about the crowd nervously, “I… I’m going to make friends with the old woman on Loblolly Lane… you know dad… you called her Bertha a long time ago.”

Her dad laughed at her. He looked around trying to gain sympathy and kindred support. He said, “I think Charlie and my daughter have had too much Champaign!” And he shuffled away to another unsuspecting guest, while glancing sideways suspiciously at Jemma.

Several weekends later, everyone had forgotten their New Year’s resolution… that is… except Jemma.

Although it was late January, the day Jemma decided to take a walk, the air was cold, but the mid winter sun warmed her. She rounded the corner and stopped. There it stood, that decaying, shabby house at twenty-one Loblolly Lane, belonging to the woman and her terrifying broom.

Bravely, she started walking toward the house. As she got closer, she could see that pieces of the wooden gingerbread scrolls had decayed and fallen. The roof sagged. A board on the third step was missing. The home’s paint, once bright white, had turned a dull gray and was peeling off in long, horizontal strips.

Jemma stopped where the walkway of the house met the sidewalk. Yet, there was no woman intent on sweeping her from the sidewalk. Determined to make good on her New Year’s resolution, she found her feet moving slowly toward the front door. Inside her mind was the terrifying thought of the evil broom that brushed her away with its scratch-scratching.

Almost half way to the porch, the front door suddenly burst opened, its three hinges yelled in high-pitched panic. The enraged  woman appeared – with her broom. “Go away!” She shouted in a crackling voice, her vines of limp, gray hair fluttering crazily. “Go away. I don’t want to buy anything.” She pushed the broom toward Jemma, its evil straws scratch-scratching and clawing on the rain-ruined boards of the porch.

“I…I haven’t any…th…thing to se…sell.” Jemma said in a most un-flattering, stammering voice. She took one more step toward the evil broom.

“What are you here for? To rob me? I have nothing here. Go away!” The broom seemed to lash out like an angry, ankle-biting dog, bearing its white fangs. Instead of barking, its hostility was the scratch-scratching. Thankfully, the wicked dog was tethered by a strong leash, the broom handle.

“My name is Jemma. When I was in grade school I walked past your house . Your broom tried to sweep me away. I want to make friends with you. I don’t want to rob you. Just make friends.”

“Jemma?” The name seemed to resonate from a long-forgotten, harmonious harp string. Her face softened. Then her voice growled, ”I don’t know you. Go away”

“That’s why I’m here. I wish to make friends with you. Has anyone mailed you a Christmas card? Ever? When was the last time someone baked a birthday cake for you?”

The old woman pulled that evil broom toward her, tucking the end of its crooked handle into her armpit. Its evil brushes lay on the floor of the porch, resting fretfully, staring at the stranger. Several brushes fussed, scratch-scratching.

“I don’t need a sympathy card,” the old woman declared. “I’ve gotten along just fine without any well-wishing for more years than you’ve been alive.” Her voice was as sour as a fresh lemon.

Jemma stepped closer, eying the evil broom. “I think I know your name. Is it Bertha?”

Surprised, the old woman’s face softened, as it should have always been. “How’d you know my name?”

“My dad told me.” Then the most illogical thought entered her mind. It was as nutty as turning on the kitchen tap and filling a cup with water flowing into the faucet! It defied her common sense. “May I come inside and make you a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t like coffee. Hate the taste. Your father knows me?”

“He said your name one day. Do you have any tea?”

“I have several kinds. Yes. I… I think I would enjoy a warm cup of tea on this chilly day. Who’s your father?”

Jemma, undaunted by the evil broom, hopped over the missing third step and onto the creaky porch. She opened the front door and let Bertha inside. Bertha left her wicked sweeper standing outside on the porch. As the door opened, its hinges squealed painfully. The latch protested with the sound of gnashing teeth.

The front room was dark and dreary. Several dull and dusty upholstered chairs faced each other, silent, speechless. Once elegant lace curtains hung dirty and moth-eaten. Bertha led Jemma to the kitchen.

“Where do you keep your tea?” Jemma asked cheerfully.

Bertha pointed to a cupboard door. “There.”

Jemma found several flavors. She asked, “What would you like? Pink Rose? Nasturtium Red? Chinese Perfume?”

Bertha thought a moment. This is something unfamiliar. but, what does that girl want? She could not remember anyone asking her what sort of tea she wished. “I don’t know.” With a faint smile, she softly said, “Surprise me.”

Jemma chose the Pink Rose tea. Bertha pointed to the kettle for heating the water. They talked small talk and exchanged smiles. The water boiled, which seemed to Jemma to take for….ever.

“What is your father’s name?” Bertha asked.

“Donald. Donald Chapman.”

Bertha’s face brightened. “I… know… who… you… are!” Her tongue tasted every word. Each word seemed sweeter than the previous. “You’re Jemma Chapman. Right?”

“Yes. I’m Jemma Chapman. But how did you know…”

Then, Berth’s eyes narrowed, “And I know who your parents are!”

Jemma was surprised. “How do you know my family? And me, too?”

“Because we’re close relatives.”

Bertha suddenly stood, her back slightly arched. “I’ll be right back. I take one spoonful of sugar. I think you’ll be surprised” The floor creaked as she left the room.

When Bertha returned, she saw steam spiraling up from her teacup, wafting a pleasant aroma from the hot Pink Rose tea. She placed a wooden box on the table. It was one of those fake-looking novels. Bertha unhooked a brass latch, snapping it open, and most reverently, opened the box, the hinges wept a painful ooouuuch. She pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“These papers, Jemma, are about you.”

“Me? Why?” Jemma’s voice crackled with astonishment, her eyes as large as saucers, her mouth agape with curiosity.

“You see, a long time ago I inherited a lot of money. My last name is Chapman, too. Bertha Chapman. You’re my great granddaughter! When I inherited the money, everyone hated me. They wanted me to share the money. I tried sharing, but they wanted all of the inheritance. They became hateful towards me, and I became hateful towards the money. I wanted nothing to do with that money.”

“So? What does your money and the family’s hate toward you got anything to do with me?”

“I was the only family member that Joshua Chapman liked. He’d be… he be your great, great grandfather. The family didn’t like him because he was rich and hardheaded. He owned the main rail line between Washington D.C. and into New York. Before he died, he sold it to the Hudson Railroad System. They bought it for ten million dollars.”

“Why’d he like you, Bertha?”

“Because I saw beyond the hardheaded business man that he was. He was actually a very kind man. A quick smile. Honest. He liked giving money to struggling businesses. I would visit him. We got to know each other very well. I comforted him on his deathbed… that was an awful time. Before he died, he bequeathed me his bank account.”

“You inherited his bank account?”

“Yes he did. He had his name taken off and put my name on the account. At that time, it was worth over ten million dollars. That was… that was seventy years ago. The interest has made it grow some.”

“You should be living in a mansion, Bertha! Not here.”

“Mansions are for you to build, Jemma. Here. Would you like to have the bank account?”

“No. Not really. Money like that makes people crazy. I’d rather just be your friend.”

Bertha’s eyes drilled into Jemma’s eyes. “You’re serious. Just being friends?”

“Yes. Just friends. You don’t have to give me anything. Just your time, now and then, over a cup of tea.”

Bertha handed the papers to Jemma. “But, I'm going to give the money to you. Here is the bank account. This is the most recent bank statement. There is a lot of money in the account. There are so many numbers that it is hard to figure out how much money there is. We just need to change the names on the account; from Bertha Chapman to Jemma Chapman.”

“Why, Bertha? Why me?” Jemma asked, sipping the last, cooling drops of Pink Rose tea.

“Because, Jemma, you choose me as a friend; not my money. And being friends has great rewards.