ago, after my husband died. I’m not very active, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. Don’t have more than four or five clients at a time. Lydia will be my biggest sale. I got her house because nobody else would work with her.”
“Was she ever married?” I asked.
“Yeah. Guy by the name of Lucifer Beelzebub.”
I laughed, then said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what did your husband die of?”
“Heart attack. Out mowing the lawn one hot day, and that was that. I’d just gone in to make him some lemonade, and when I came back out, there he was. And do you know, I started laughing at him lying there, facedown? Thought he was goofing around.” She shook her head, remembering. “First thing I thought when I turned him over was,
Damn it, I told him he was getting too old for a push mower!
I was so mad at him! I tried CPR, but it was too late. I was crying and pushing on his chest and yelling at him, saying, ‘You
stop
this! Now come on, come on!’ Oh, it was awful. I ran in the house and called 911 and then ran back out to keep trying until they came—that was the longest wait of my life. Only good thing was that he died instantly—never knew what hit him. How about you?”
“Cancer,” I said, and felt inside a curious puckering, a drawing inward and upward. I was grateful for the waitress coming to the table to deliver our drinks. She was a young and very pretty blond woman, an engagement ring sparkling on her hand. “
Here
you go,” she said. And then, “Hey, Delores. A hundred sixty-eight and a half more hours.”
“Good for you, sweetheart,” Delores said. “Still time to change your mind.”
“Oh, I’m not changing my mind,” the woman said. She walked away toward the kitchen, the lightness of new love in her step.
“You know,” Delores said, “her fiancé put her ring in a Kentucky Fried Chicken biscuit—that’s how he proposed. I thought that was pretty dangerous—she could have swallowed it, for Pete’s sake! But Cindy said he was watching her real carefully. In fact, she said she was worried he was going to break up with her—he kept staring at her in this really odd way.”
I nodded, looking down into my drink. My own proposal had come at the end of a glorious Saturday. John and I had gone out to breakfast, then for a walk along the Charles, then to look in antiques stores out in the western suburbs, then to a funky restaurant in Cambridge for dinner. Just as we were getting ready to leave, John asked quietly, “Do I have anything in my teeth?” He raised his lips, chimplike.
“No, “ I said, giggling. “Do I?” I showed him my own teeth.
“No,” he said. And then his face changed and he rose quickly from his chair. I remember thinking that he’d gotten suddenly ill and was rushing off to the bathroom. But what happened was, he came to kneel beside me.
“What are you
do
ing?” I asked. “John?”
“Shhhhhh!” he said. “I’m about to propose!” And he pulled the black velvet ring box from his pocket.
“Yes,” I said, and he said, “I didn’t ask yet.” And I said he didn’t have to, and then I kissed him and the people sitting around us began to clap and I thought I might die of happiness on the floor of an Ethiopian restaurant.
“You okay?” Delores asked.
I sighed. “Yeah. It’s just . . . I resent the time of John’s dying. If I’d been older, I think I would feel more resigned—I’d hope to just enjoy what was left of my life. And if I’d been younger, I might have remarried and had children—John and I couldn’t. As it is . . .”
“I don’t imagine it’s ever easy,” Delores said. “For me, the hardest thing was not to turn bitter. At first, there’s all this attention, casseroles and pies and cards and phone calls. But then it’s just you, and it starts to sink in, all that you’ve lost. Funny, for the longest time it seemed like I was surprised that it didn’t
all
go away, that Carson didn’t come walking back
“Was she ever married?” I asked.
“Yeah. Guy by the name of Lucifer Beelzebub.”
I laughed, then said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what did your husband die of?”
“Heart attack. Out mowing the lawn one hot day, and that was that. I’d just gone in to make him some lemonade, and when I came back out, there he was. And do you know, I started laughing at him lying there, facedown? Thought he was goofing around.” She shook her head, remembering. “First thing I thought when I turned him over was,
Damn it, I told him he was getting too old for a push mower!
I was so mad at him! I tried CPR, but it was too late. I was crying and pushing on his chest and yelling at him, saying, ‘You
stop
this! Now come on, come on!’ Oh, it was awful. I ran in the house and called 911 and then ran back out to keep trying until they came—that was the longest wait of my life. Only good thing was that he died instantly—never knew what hit him. How about you?”
“Cancer,” I said, and felt inside a curious puckering, a drawing inward and upward. I was grateful for the waitress coming to the table to deliver our drinks. She was a young and very pretty blond woman, an engagement ring sparkling on her hand. “
Here
you go,” she said. And then, “Hey, Delores. A hundred sixty-eight and a half more hours.”
“Good for you, sweetheart,” Delores said. “Still time to change your mind.”
“Oh, I’m not changing my mind,” the woman said. She walked away toward the kitchen, the lightness of new love in her step.
“You know,” Delores said, “her fiancé put her ring in a Kentucky Fried Chicken biscuit—that’s how he proposed. I thought that was pretty dangerous—she could have swallowed it, for Pete’s sake! But Cindy said he was watching her real carefully. In fact, she said she was worried he was going to break up with her—he kept staring at her in this really odd way.”
I nodded, looking down into my drink. My own proposal had come at the end of a glorious Saturday. John and I had gone out to breakfast, then for a walk along the Charles, then to look in antiques stores out in the western suburbs, then to a funky restaurant in Cambridge for dinner. Just as we were getting ready to leave, John asked quietly, “Do I have anything in my teeth?” He raised his lips, chimplike.
“No, “ I said, giggling. “Do I?” I showed him my own teeth.
“No,” he said. And then his face changed and he rose quickly from his chair. I remember thinking that he’d gotten suddenly ill and was rushing off to the bathroom. But what happened was, he came to kneel beside me.
“What are you
do
ing?” I asked. “John?”
“Shhhhhh!” he said. “I’m about to propose!” And he pulled the black velvet ring box from his pocket.
“Yes,” I said, and he said, “I didn’t ask yet.” And I said he didn’t have to, and then I kissed him and the people sitting around us began to clap and I thought I might die of happiness on the floor of an Ethiopian restaurant.
“You okay?” Delores asked.
I sighed. “Yeah. It’s just . . . I resent the time of John’s dying. If I’d been older, I think I would feel more resigned—I’d hope to just enjoy what was left of my life. And if I’d been younger, I might have remarried and had children—John and I couldn’t. As it is . . .”
“I don’t imagine it’s ever easy,” Delores said. “For me, the hardest thing was not to turn bitter. At first, there’s all this attention, casseroles and pies and cards and phone calls. But then it’s just you, and it starts to sink in, all that you’ve lost. Funny, for the longest time it seemed like I was surprised that it didn’t
all
go away, that Carson didn’t come walking back
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