“You’re not going to give me one of your lectures now, are you? You’re not going to ask me to take out a piece of paper and write down the first word that occurs to me and drop it in the basket, are you?” This was a technique I used sometimes in workshops.
“Not unless you pay me.”
He laughs. “I miss you, Cece.”
“You, too.”
“Keep in touch. Drop me an email now and then.”
“I will.”
But I don’t think we’ll email anymore. He’s moved on in a way I can’t, yet. It occurs to me that I should have asked about his new wife. I wish she could know one thing about Penny. When it became absolutely clear that she was not going to experience the miracle cure we all prayed for, Penny embarked on a daunting task: she wiped out and lined every drawer and cupboard in her house with beautiful paper. When I asked why she was using up so much of the limited energy she had on this, she said, “I want it to be nice for Brice’s next wife.”
I go into the coffee shop and order a coffee and a mini-cupcake. I find a table and drink my coffee and watch the people in the shop. I smell the beans being ground, listen to snippets of conversation and bursts of laughter. But on the inside, I tell Penny that Brice is getting married.
I know.
I bite into my cupcake and tell Penny that I know she wanted Brice to remarry, but now that he’s really doing it, doesn’t it hurt her feelings?
No. It’s bigger, here.
I check my watch, refill my coffee cup, sit back down at the table, and while I pretend to read a newspaper someone has left behind, I tell Penny about the letters Dennis Halsinger used to send me. At first they were written on napkins, the envelopes made out of magazine pages and sealed with masking tape, and I relished the quirky artistry of that, even copied it for a while. Then, as he began to make some money, the letters came on tissue-thin pages with rambling, poetic passages about what he was seeing and feeling: the incredible natural beauty of Tahiti, the politics of the place; the way he evolved in his views of what love and life were meant to be. I remember lying on my bed and reading his response to one of my letters where I despaired of ever finding true and lasting love. He said love only made sense in the context of it being in your own mind first, then given to others; that trying to force it never worked.
Go and see him. Just get in the car and do it.
I hear it as clearly as if she has spoken it right into my ear.
Do it!
“I will!” I say. The people sitting at the table next to me look over at me, then away.
I FIND THE HOUSE WITH THE ROOM FOR RENT EASILY, WHITE stucco with a red lacquered door. It’s pretty, but the yard needs tending, and the house could use a coat of paint. There’s a big front porch with both a hammock and a swing, wicker chairs with faded floral-print pillows, the chairs angled toward each other as though they are having a conversation. Between them is a wicker table with a lamp, and anchored to the wall behind it is a long white shelf holding an assemblage of paperbacks. In a corner of the porch is an antique wrought-iron tea cart, seriously off-balance, but with coffee mugs and a few wineglasses turned upside down on a dishcloth anyway. Even with its imperfections—or maybe because of them—it’s a charming exterior, welcoming.
I take a quick walk along the side of the house to look at the backyard. It’s huge, much bigger than you’d think from the street. There’s a small garden there, but it’s ill tended. I think, If I live here and if they want to me to, I’ll fix it up. I’ll plant cosmos and bearded iris, hot pink roses, Stargazer lilies and tree peonies. Maybe a bank of Miss Kim lilacs along the back fence, and some climbing hydrangea to grow up the side of the house. I’d love to have forget-me-nots, too, and daisies, and the exotic purple globes of allium. There’s room for a big vegetable garden. There could even be a space for meditation, off in one corner.
More than the glorious bounty, I realize I’d like the gratification of doing the labor that a garden requires. I like nestling young plants into warm earth. I even like the sight of fat earthworms turning the soil inches from my hand. I like getting tired and dirty for a such a good reason.
Well. I’m getting a little ahead of myself.
I go back around to the front and knock on the door. I hear a dog barking and a voice telling him to hush. Then the door is opened by a woman in her late forties, early fifties, with wild blond curls and bright blue eyes. She’s wearing a long skirt, a lacy top, and hoop earrings. “Oh, hi, I’m Joni,” she says. “Are you Cecilia?” She’s out of breath and a little excited.
“I am!” I like friendly people like this who immediately make you feel welcome, and quite pleased to be yourself.
An ancient yellow Lab with a solid white muzzle races over to sniff at my pants leg. “No, no, Riley, don’t!” Joni says, grabbing his collar. Then, to me, “He’ll calm right down. He’s such a busybody, master of the house, you know.” She stands aside. “Anyway. Come in! We were just about to have lunch, will you join us? I made a cheese soufflé and a spinach salad with strawberries and candied walnuts.”
An interview with benefits, it seems. Why not. “Sounds great,” I say.
As we pass the living room, I see comfortable-looking furniture, a kind of shabby-chic look with an off-white sofa you just want to fall into. There’s a flat-screen TV, a fireplace with a blue stone surround that looks like lapis lazuli, and an overcrowded bookcase, my favorite kind. Nice artwork, which looks to be original, and a large, glass-topped oval coffee table holding oversize books and a tray with a vintage martini pitcher and glass. The pitcher has a bouquet of yellow tulips in it, and the martini glass holds jacks and a red rubber ball. I see jewel-tone pillows stacked in the corner, and assume they are used if people want to eat around that table. There’s a chaise lounge by the window, a reading lamp beside it. Two off-white overstuffed armchairs with hassocks.
“Come and meet the others,” Joni says. “They’re at the table. In the dining room. Right in here. Follow me!”
We go into the dining room, where the wooden floor is covered by a faded Oriental rug in tones of pink, blue, and cream. There is a beamed ceiling, those beams painted a soft white, and the room is well lit by a bank of high art-glass windows. The large round antique oak table has been nicely restored, and above it hangs a chandelier featuring glass birds that I think I once saw in an Anthropologie store. I had looked at it for a long time; I’d almost bought it, but I had nowhere to put it. It looks perfect here. A sign, I think, that chandelier being here.
“So, this is Cecilia,” Joni tells the two women sitting at the table. Then, pointing to the younger, dark-haired woman, “That’s Renie. Well, Irene, but Renie.”
“Hi,” I say, and Renie raises a hand, stays silent. She reminds me of a bird: close-cropped hair like a chickadee’s cap, a delicate frame, a sharp nose, large round eyes. She’s wearing an open, blue-checked flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt, blue jeans. She has a diamond nose stud.
“And this is Lise,” Joni says, pointing to the other woman at the table, fortyish with dark brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her light brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and she’s wearing a crisp white blouse and gray linen slacks. She exudes a kind of grace and calm, but it’s mixed with a watchfulness that makes her a cat to Renie’s bird.
“Hi, Cecilia,” Lise says, and her voice is warm.
“It’s Lise’s house,” Joni says. “Maybe you knew that already, did you know that already?”
“My house, but unequivocally Joni’s kitchen,” Lise says. “Welcome!” She holds her hand out to shake mine and I am struck by the length of her fingers. “Pianist?” I ask, and she smiles. “Physician. I’m in family practice at HealthPartners. I’m afraid the only instrument I play is a rubber band.”
“Let me show you the room real quick,” Joni says, “and then we’ll have lunch.”
We climb the stairs and go past a large bathroom with a claw-foot tub, vintage black and white tiles. There’s a white bureau aga
inst the wall, bath products arranged on the top like a glass bouquet, and I imagine there are towels in the drawers. In the corner is a birdcage on a stand, a pink flowering plant inside.
The room for rent is the last room on the right. It’s very large, painted a cream color with white trim, egg-and-dart molding. The sun shines in brightly; the floor is polished to a high sheen. There’s a window seat that overlooks the backyard. And just like that: I know. I want to live here. Attached as I am to my house, I don’t want to be there anymore. I want to move on. I want to be here, in a new place, with new people, with a new garden to put in. And with nothing to do but fix up my own bedroom.
I turn to Joni. “I love it.”
She beams. “Right? It’s the nicest bedroom, really,” she says. “It was Sandy’s, Lise’s daughter.” She lowers her voice to say, “I wouldn’t mention her. They don’t get along.”
Joni stands with her arms crossed, looking around. “There really is a nice feeling to this room, it’s such a nice feeling. We’re all too lazy to move, or we’d be fighting over it. Okay, let’s eat.” Over her shoulder she adds, “Those are my three favorite words.”
On the way to the dining room, she takes me past a powder room with black and white polka-dotted wallpaper and a cherry-red toilet seat, then into the large kitchen, which is magnificent: a true chef’s kitchen complete with a six-burner stove and a butcher block island, above which are hanging many pots and pans. Next to the window, there’s a vinyl booth with a semicircular, tuck-and-roll bench, the kind you might find in a diner, and it is full of pillows, which appear to have been made from vintage embroidered dishtowels, the kind that designate a job for each day of the week: Monday, washing; Tuesday, ironing; and so forth.
During lunch, I learn that Joni is a widow, and a lunchtime sous-chef at Ultramarine, which is one of the fanciest restaurants—if not the fanciest restaurant—in the Twin Cities.
“Ultramarine!” I say.
“Ultramarine,” she says back, sighing.
“Just when I was starting to like you,” I say. “Now I’m going to have to be afraid of you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m Jekyll here, Hyde there. That’s the problem with pressure cooker restaurants like that. The only civilized part is the staff meal before we start work. Have you eaten there?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.” I don’t like restaurants where you have to take out a second mortgage to pay the check.
“Come in someday and I’ll treat you,” Joni says. “I’ll have to seat you by the kitchen. And then you’ll hear the sound of hair being ripped out of heads, but the meal will be fantastic!”
“What compels you to work in a place like that?” I ask.
She looks at me. “It’s Ultramarine.” She shrugs. “Plus I lose weight, working there. I must sweat off a pound an hour. But it’s getting to me. I’m not as young as I used to be, as they say. When you do what I do, fifty-two feels like ninety-two.”
“I keep telling you you should do yoga,” Lise tells her. “It would help you. It really helps me. And it’s good exercise.”
“You’re ten years younger than I am,” Joni says. “That’s what helps you.”
“Yoga is not exercise,” Renie says. “It is a thinly disguised competition where people are judged on their personalized mats and cute little yoga outfits and ability to act like a heron or the letter Q.”
“That is not true,” Lise says. “Why don’t you try it sometime? You can come with me any Friday for a free session.”
“Yeah, I’d love to, but I have an appointment every Friday.”
“When?”
“All day and all night. It’s a very unusual appointment.” Renie turns to me. “What do you think, is yoga exercise?”
My mouth is full of salad. I hold up my palms: Beats me.
“A diplomat,” Renie says. “How boring.”
I’ve learned that Renie works for an alternative newspaper. She was a reporter at the Star Tribune, but after she did a satirical piece on advice columns, she was hired by In a Different Voice to do a regular column that she calls “Get Over Yourself.” She reminds me of a Tarot card called the King of Wands, which signifies someone tough on the outside, tender on the inside. Well, I like a challenge. If I live here, I’ll figure out a way into her. And if not, I think the other two will make up for her.
Lise, who is divorced, owns not only the house but the dog. She told me she decided to rent out rooms after her only child moved out. “Her name is Sandy,” Lise said. “She’s twenty. She lives in Dinky-town and goes to the University of Minnesota. She’s pretty busy over there; I don’t really see her that much.”
I nod, like it’s all new to me. Joni stares at her plate.
“I really like the people who have lived here,” Lise says. “And I get free dog- and house-sitting when I travel. You do like dogs, don’t you?”
“Love them!” I say.
Lise pushes her chair back from the table. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to cast my vote right now, for yes.” She looks at me. “That is, if you are agreeable to moving in.”
I’m a little surprised that she’s asked me this so suddenly, but maybe she’s like me: when she knows, she knows. I really like the bedroom, I like the whole house, I love the neighborhood, and I’m intrigued by the mix of ages and occupations of the women who live here.
“I do have to ask one thing,” I say. “Would it be all right if I put in a garden? Flowers, vegetables, maybe a space for meditation?”
“I’d be grateful,” Lise says. “It’s a mess out there. Do whatever you like!”
“A space for meditation?” Renie says.
I ignore her. “I could do some pots for your front porch, too. I was thinking dahlia and blue ageratum, maybe some verbena and lemon licorice?”
“Oh wow, what a great idea,” Joni says. “That would be so pretty!”
“And I can move in right away, if that makes any difference.” I sit still, waiting for the others to speak.
No problem as far as Joni is concerned: she claps her hands and says, “Fine with me. I can’t wait for the vegetable garden. We should put in herbs, too.”
Renie looks down at her lap. “Why don’t we talk about it later?”
“Come on,” Lise says. “Let’s just vote her in. I’m tired of doing interviews.”
Renie looks at me. “All right. No offense, but I don’t think you’re a good fit. A motivational speaker who writes self-help books?”
“Renie,” Joni says.
Lise says, “I’ve read one of her books, and it was really good.”
“Really?” I say, and so does Renie, though with an entirely different tone.
“You read a self-help book?” Renie asks Lise.
“Yes, Renie, I read a self-help book, and guess what? It helped!” She turns to me. “It was quite useful to me after my divorce.”
“Thank you. I’m glad.”
Renie readjusts herself in her chair. “We agreed that we all have to agree, right?”
No one says anything.
I reach for my purse. “Well, thanks for considering me. I enjoyed the lunch.”
“Tell you what,” Renie says. “Why don’t you see if you can motivate me to get up out of my chair? If you can, it’s fine with me if you move in.”
“Stop it, Renie,” Lise says.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. It’ll be like The Sword in the Stone or something.”
“What is wrong with you?” Joni asks. “You know, you’re the real reason Vicky moved out. She would have stayed if it weren’t for you. You’re why she moved out. So.”
“Thanks again,” I say, starting to get up. And then I fall to the floor.
Everyone leaps up.
“Oh my God, are you all right?” Joni asks.
I get on my feet and look at Renie, who is standing opposite me. “Well. Looks like you’re out of your chair.”
The other women laug
h, and Renie sits back down, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “How old are you, anyway?”
Well, now she’s gotten me mad. I have a problem with ageism, overt and especially covert. My feeling about a person’s age is that it’s a serving suggestion. It’s up to you what you do with it: take it as offered, modify it, or ignore it altogether.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I’m thirty-nine. And I’m gay.”
“So fucking what?”
“Oh, she’s in,” Joni says. “Don’t you think so? Isn’t she in, Renie?”
I take a step closer. “I’m a good person. I’m fair, I’m honest, I’m responsible, I’m not moody. I take short showers and I’m terrific at organizing. I don’t mind cleaning; in fact, I like cleaning. I even like cleaning out the refrigerator. And I can fix a running toilet.”
Renie smiles. “You want me to help you get your bed over here? I have a truck. Then, later tonight, we can all lie out under the stars holding hands and sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “And look how far ahead of the game you are already!”
WHEN I GET HOME, I CALL THE REAL ESTATE AGENCY NEAREST me and make an appointment to have my house listed. And then I feel a sudden pang of sadness: I’d been wondering when it would hit. Sure as I am that I want to leave, it will be hard to sell this house.
I go upstairs and into my bedroom closet to take out my box of fortunes, as I call it. I open it and see the worn deck of Tarot cards that Cosmina gave me, and the burgundy velvet bag holding glass stones, Runes, upon which are etched letters from an ancient alphabetic script. There’s the venerable I Ching, which Dennis taught me to use so many years ago, and a collection of cards a woman who came to a talk once gave me. They feature images of flowers, and have evocative words and definitions torn from the dictionary on the bottoms. She also gave me cards with images of women, and on the bottoms of those are various fragments or statements, things like: It was the one, true thing to do.
There’s one deck of divinatory cards that are my favorites, in part because they’re so fast: I form a question and spread the cards out in my hand with the images facing away from me. I close my eyes and wait to feel as though a card is asking me to pick it. Sometimes it’s immediate; sometimes it takes longer, but always, always, the feeling comes to draw a particular one. And then I use the book to interpret the meaning of the card I’ve drawn. There’s a brief summary of what the image represents, a story that is “the teaching,” and finally “the application,” so that you can incorporate that teaching into your life.