in the door saying, ‘Well, sweetheart, that was a real good job you did on my funeral, now what’s for dinner?’ But they don’t come back and they don’t come back and it takes a toll. You can get mad. And then you can take it out on the whole world. I’ve seen that happen often enough. But the alternative is . . . well, you can speak the truth and shame the devil. You can tell people you need a little help and then let yourself take what people offer—even though it’s hard to do! It is
hard
to do! And you can let yourself be gentle, which takes a lot of strength. But look, honey, it seems to me that you are very strong—look at what you’re doing!”
“Well, mostly I’m honoring a request my husband made, trying to fulfill a dream we had. That and . . . you know, John used to say, ‘Never underestimate the power of denial.’ I suppose that’s what this is, in a way. Denial.” I finished my drink, shrugged. “If nothing else, I’ll sell the house and move back. You can be my Realtor again.”
“That,” Delores said, “would be a very pleasant change from Miss Lydia Samuels.” She leaned back to make room for the large platter being put before her. “Oh my!” she said. “Doesn’t that look good.”
Outside of my elementary school
Dick and Jane
reader, I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone say “Oh my!” without being sarcastic. I liked that she said it with such clasped-hands sincerity.
After we finished dinner and were ready to leave, Delores said, “Now, listen. Why do you need a motel room? Why don’t you just come and stay with me?”
I looked at her, considering, then smiled and said no.
“Why not?” she asked. Her voice was loud; she had ordered a second drink.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Well . . . okay,” Delores said. “But you come over to my office first thing in the morning and we’ll get everything settled. Call your movers—I’ll have you in that house in less than two weeks.”
In fact, it was a bit over one week. Lydia agreed to rent her house to me for fifty dollars a day until I owned it. And I was lucky again with timing—the moving company was able to bring my things out four days after I called.
So it was that at ten o’clock on a Friday night, I wrapped a quilt around myself and sat on the top step of my new front porch. A few hours earlier I had watched the moving truck drive away, had watched the taillights grow smaller and smaller until they disappeared. It was as though Boston and John and all the life I’d lived thus far was contained in those glowing red circles. I thought of how the movers might go out and grab some burgers and coffee, how they might then jump up into the cab of the truck, turn on the radio, and start the long and bouncy drive back east. It was all I could do not to run after the truck. It had been one thing to be on a journey that was stimulating and full of promise—and distraction. But now here I was. Now what? Should I really try to open a store?
I thought of the boxes of things I’d kept in Boston and now had downstairs in the basement—the candelabra with birds and twisting branches that I’d found in New Orleans, the glass pens and bottles of sepia-colored inks I’d gotten in Florence, the calligraphy sets once given to John by a grateful patient, beautiful samples of lapis lazuli that I’d meant to have made into a bracelet. I had antique birdcages, lengths of kimono fabric, a small bench with ornate ironwork at the ends, the seat covered in apricot-and-cream wide-striped silk. I had yards and yards of many kinds of fancy ribbons. One box held only dried bittersweet and silver dollars; another box once used for wine now had a bird’s nest in each divided compartment. I had charms and beads, vintage aprons, leopard-skin lamp shades, ornate doorknobs, small stained-glass windows. I had a Hopalong Cassidy child’s dinner plate and matching silverware, old black dial telephones, framed
hard
to do! And you can let yourself be gentle, which takes a lot of strength. But look, honey, it seems to me that you are very strong—look at what you’re doing!”
“Well, mostly I’m honoring a request my husband made, trying to fulfill a dream we had. That and . . . you know, John used to say, ‘Never underestimate the power of denial.’ I suppose that’s what this is, in a way. Denial.” I finished my drink, shrugged. “If nothing else, I’ll sell the house and move back. You can be my Realtor again.”
“That,” Delores said, “would be a very pleasant change from Miss Lydia Samuels.” She leaned back to make room for the large platter being put before her. “Oh my!” she said. “Doesn’t that look good.”
Outside of my elementary school
Dick and Jane
reader, I didn’t think I’d ever heard anyone say “Oh my!” without being sarcastic. I liked that she said it with such clasped-hands sincerity.
After we finished dinner and were ready to leave, Delores said, “Now, listen. Why do you need a motel room? Why don’t you just come and stay with me?”
I looked at her, considering, then smiled and said no.
“Why not?” she asked. Her voice was loud; she had ordered a second drink.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Well . . . okay,” Delores said. “But you come over to my office first thing in the morning and we’ll get everything settled. Call your movers—I’ll have you in that house in less than two weeks.”
In fact, it was a bit over one week. Lydia agreed to rent her house to me for fifty dollars a day until I owned it. And I was lucky again with timing—the moving company was able to bring my things out four days after I called.
So it was that at ten o’clock on a Friday night, I wrapped a quilt around myself and sat on the top step of my new front porch. A few hours earlier I had watched the moving truck drive away, had watched the taillights grow smaller and smaller until they disappeared. It was as though Boston and John and all the life I’d lived thus far was contained in those glowing red circles. I thought of how the movers might go out and grab some burgers and coffee, how they might then jump up into the cab of the truck, turn on the radio, and start the long and bouncy drive back east. It was all I could do not to run after the truck. It had been one thing to be on a journey that was stimulating and full of promise—and distraction. But now here I was. Now what? Should I really try to open a store?
I thought of the boxes of things I’d kept in Boston and now had downstairs in the basement—the candelabra with birds and twisting branches that I’d found in New Orleans, the glass pens and bottles of sepia-colored inks I’d gotten in Florence, the calligraphy sets once given to John by a grateful patient, beautiful samples of lapis lazuli that I’d meant to have made into a bracelet. I had antique birdcages, lengths of kimono fabric, a small bench with ornate ironwork at the ends, the seat covered in apricot-and-cream wide-striped silk. I had yards and yards of many kinds of fancy ribbons. One box held only dried bittersweet and silver dollars; another box once used for wine now had a bird’s nest in each divided compartment. I had charms and beads, vintage aprons, leopard-skin lamp shades, ornate doorknobs, small stained-glass windows. I had a Hopalong Cassidy child’s dinner plate and matching silverware, old black dial telephones, framed
Similar Books
