But you know what usually happens when you take a vacation to a place that galvanizes you and makes you feel like you’re going to change your life. You come home and get right back into your old habits. Meanwhile, a slow fire burns.
A man comes down the sidewalk and for one breathless moment, I think it’s Dennis. It’s not; the man passes and I see that in fact he looks nothing at all like Dennis, or at least nothing like Dennis used to look. Who knows what he looks like now? Is it possible he’s bald, with a paunch?
Anyway. Here I am. Free from my job, and not living alone anymore. Thus far, the only disadvantage I’ve found to living with others is that you can’t mandate noise levels. No one in the house is abusive with noise, but even the television turned on to a reasonable level can interfere when you’re thinking. It’s a small price to pay; I’m happy with my decision.
Last night I sat on the floor of Joni’s bedroom with her, fancy cookbooks piled all over, helping her look for interesting appetizers she could adapt for use at Ultramarine. Those new cookbooks are all well and good, but the cookbooks she really likes are those from long ago. She buys them in antiques stores and at garage sales. She likes the notes the owners wrote in small, often perfect cursive: Doug loved! or Used for Mary’s 16th birthday or Add lemon jce—a bit too sweet. Many of those old recipes she uses when she cooks for us. One we all love is the red cabbage with cloves and apple in it.
I like being in Joni’s bedroom. It’s messy but comfortable. She has an antique bed with an off-white wrought-iron frame, and I gave her one of my quilts to put on it, a double wedding ring in dusty roses and pale greens and ivory. There’s a chandelier she bought on a trip to London, all curling leaves and flowers. She has a dresser that belonged to her grandmother, and on it are framed pictures of friends, relatives, and food: a blue plastic crate full of lemons, a platter piled high with pasta, a lattice-top pie nestled into a red-and-white-checked dish towel.
There is also a glass tray full of old perfume bottles, all empty; Joni doesn’t wear perfume because it interferes with her tasting things, but she likes the evocative shapes of the bottles. I’ve already decided that for her birthday, which I know is the fourth of July, I’m going to get her the most elegant atomizer I can find.
Lise’s room is as neat as Joni’s is messy. Clean lines, colors of black and white and gray, no froufrou, just the way she dresses—I’ve never seen any jewelry but pearl studs on Lise. She has miniblinds, halogen lamps, that sort of thing.
I’ve yet to be invited into Renie’s room. I have had a quick glance every now and then; she’s got one wall full of books and CDs, and she has some Asian influence going on in there: black lacquer furniture, an orange-red silk duvet cover. And my old chaise lounge, which is neutral enough not to look out of place.
I turn around and start for home. I think we were all greatly surprised at what Renie revealed at dinner. She wouldn’t say anything more about it then, but I want very much to talk to her, if she’s willing. There’s a story I could tell her.
When I get back to the house, I stand for a while on the sidewalk in front of it. Lights are on, the windows are deep yellow squares. I see Lise moving about inside. I know how the house will smell when I come in, I know where to hang Riley’s leash and that I should check his water dish. I know that if my roommates are talking about something, they’ll catch me up on whatever it is. I am comfortable here, I belong, I am home. When I was a little girl, I used to make a basket of my hands to hold a feeling of joy that came upon me, then flatten my hands against my chest, as if to make it part of me. Not understanding that it already was.
“WHERE’S RENIE?” I ASK, when I come into the living room.
Joni, watching something on television with Lise, points to the upstairs. I head up there, thinking I’ll knock on Renie’s door with a Penelope Lively novel that she saw me with and expressed interest in reading after I was done.
I get the book from my bedroom, knock on her door. “Renie?” I say softly, into the crack. I suppose it’s possible that she’s sleeping, early as it is.
But no. I hear, “What.”
“I’ve got that book you wanted to read.”
“Okay. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
Nothing.
But then the door opens, and Renie says, “What do you want?”
“Would you like to talk?”
“About …?”
“About what you said at dinner. About your daughter. I’d like to tell you something.”
She sighs, puts a hand on her hip. Then she opens the door wider and I go in.
She’s been working. Her laptop is on, the cursor flashing. She puts the lid down on it and gestures toward the chaise lounge. The walls are painted the most interesting color; it’s nothing I could put a name to. Green? Gray? A strange shade of blue? There’s a bedside lamp made with rice paper, a black lacquer bowl holding tiny scrolls of paper tied with red ribbon. I can sense Renie’s nervousness as I look around, and so I sit down, push a pillow made from a Japanese fabric in colors of green, orange, and cream up against my middle. Thus defended, I start my story.
“When I was in college, I had a friend named Patty, who got pregnant by some guy who wanted nothing more to do with her when he found out she was carrying his child. He told her to get an abortion but not to expect him to pay for it.”
If a nod can be bitter, Renie’s is.
“She didn’t want to get an abortion. She was pro-choice, and her choice was to go ahead and have the child and give it up for adoption. So she stayed in school and finished out the year, and then that summer she gave birth.
“We didn’t care, her friends and I. I mean, we cared about her, but the idea of having a baby was so foreign to our lives at the time, we just … We didn’t care. We felt bad for her that she got pregnant and had to go through all that, but what we figured was that she’d deliver the baby, give it up, and that would be that. Clean slate.
“I remember going to her apartment with another friend to see her, about two weeks after she delivered. And she was okay, she didn’t seem particularly devastated, as we’d feared she might—look what had happened to her body!—but all she wanted to talk about was that baby, about having the baby, what it felt like to have that child in her arms. We didn’t care. I think we both thought, What’s the big deal? That baby is out of your life. Move on. Come on out with us tonight, we’re going to the Triangle Bar to hear some music, come on.
“We lost touch with her soon afterward. Not because we stopped trying to see her, but because she didn’t want to see us. It took a little growing up for me to understand why, but by then it was too late. I’m still haunted by the memory of her standing in her kitchen, trying to tell us what had happened to her, what she’d had and what she’d lost. Trying to tell us that it was not over for her, it would never be over.”
Renie is staring into her lap; I can’t tell what her expression is.
“So … I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you that. I don’t have children, I haven’t been pregnant, but I think I understand, at least a lot more than I used to, what it might be like for you to have had to carry this. And I don’t know if you were serious about trying to see her, but maybe you should.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“I’ll bet you could find her.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She looks up. “I have some work to do.”
I stand. “Okay.”
“But thanks, Cece. Really.”
“Sure.”
I go back downstairs and sit on the sofa. A commercial comes on, and Joni gets up. “I’m getting more water. Anyone want anything?” Then, quietly, “Is she okay?”
I nod. Then I sit down and watch the black-and-white movie, where a man is pinning a corsage onto a woman wearing a dress that looks like it’s made of crushed stars. After he does, the couple look deeply into each other’s eyes.
Joni sighs loudly.
“
I agree,” Lise says. “All the blatant sex these days isn’t sexy at all. Give me a guy pinning a corsage onto my shoulder just above my breast, and then lingering there just for a moment.”
“Give me a guy brushing my hand,” I say.
Joni says, “Give me a guy who lights two cigarettes and hands me one.” She thinks for a minute, then says, “Wait. Never mind. That would make me burst out laughing. Plus I don’t smoke.”
I’M SOUND ASLEEP when I’m awakened by a kind of bumping at my bedroom door. I open it, expecting to find Riley, feeling a little smug that he now sometimes wants to spend his nights with me rather than Lise, but it’s Renie, standing there. “Sorry to wake you up. Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I say and step aside. She comes in and does a slow turn around, taking in the Friendship quilt on the bed, the huge desk, the pillows I’ve put on the window seat, the blue velvet club chairs sitting on either side of a round table. I point to one of the chairs, and she sits down. I sit opposite her.
“Your room turned out nice,” she says, speaking quietly, nearly whispering.
“Thanks,” I whisper back.
“It’s really late.”
“That’s okay.”
Renie takes in a breath, clasps her hands together. “So, I just wanted to tell you something about … about Camille, how she happened.”
I nod.
“Did you ever read Stendhal? Memoirs of an Egotist?”
I must look puzzled, because she adds, “French writer, someone more interested in people’s insides than in their outsides; you’d probably love him. He said, It only needs a small quantity of hope to beget love. And he is said to have made an ass of himself in love. He was apparently besotted by a woman who was really beautiful and charismatic. She was also some general’s wife. Stendhal followed her all over the place, sometimes wearing disguises. He’d try to get invited to parties where she was going to be. You’d think she’d have had him arrested or at least told him to shove off, but no. She let him come and see her, but only twice a month. He would come and sit in her parlor and die of longing. That anguish is said to have contributed to his art.
“My story is I also fell in love with a woman who was pretty much unobtainable. Her name was Sharon Hart. She let me hang around her, though, she let me hang around her a lot, she asked me to hang around with her. I felt like she was gay but not quite out. She dated so many guys, she went through them like Kleenex, but she flirted with me big-time. She’d touch my hand, or my hair, she’d lean in overly close to tell me something in a noisy place. Once she brushed a crumb off my face, and she took way too long to do it.
“There was a time when we went camping together, and a thunderstorm came late at night. We were in our tent, side by side in sleeping bags, and there was this really loud crack of thunder. She let out a little yelp and grabbed me. I thought it was an excuse, you know, and I … Well, I tried to kiss her. But she pushed me away, and then she apologized. And rather than giving up on her, I thought the fact that she apologized meant she just wasn’t ready. So I continued to hang out with her, I continued to love her and hope that soon she’d be able to admit to a sexual orientation that seemed obvious to me.
“But then she began dating this jock, Ed Michaels, big football jock. She began spending more and more time with him and it just drove me nuts. Ed liked me. We were in Introduction to Sociology together, and he thought I was really funny and smart. He didn’t know I was gay, and I didn’t tell him, I let him flirt with me. But then when Sharon started getting closer to him, I thought, Okay. Watch this, and I went over to Ed’s apartment one night and got drunk with him and then went to bed with him. It wasn’t easy for me to do that. He was the only man I’d ever been with and the feel of his body was just abhorrent to me, especially his …”
We both smile.
“Anyway, I wanted to show her that he was no prize; that he would betray her, just like that. She got the message and she broke up with him. And I got pregnant. What need had I for birth control? Ed said he’d pull out and he did, but …
“Anyway. Not only did Sharon break up with Ed but she broke up with me. I lost her. Then I lost the baby, I gave her up, and I never wanted to think about that kid again. Never wanted to think about any of it. Only … I do think about it. A lot. Especially in May.”
She looks up at me. “You know, I have an eight-year-old niece named Madeline who likes to write stories. She wrote one about herself and her friend Lucy and how they were offered a ride in ‘Mr. Excellent’s Flying Machine.’ Lucy was afraid to get in but Madeline did, and she got to fly to the moon. She ends the story by saying, ‘I got in and Lucy didn’t and now little birds are pecking at her heart.’ Ever since I gave my baby up, little birds have pecked at my heart. So when I got that dumb makeup kit for a birthday present …”
She sighs. “I never told anyone the whole story.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“I don’t know if I am or not. But as long as I’m at it, you want to know something else?”
“Sure.”
“I know where she is.”
“Who?”
“Camille. Haley.”
I lean forward in my chair. “Where?”
Renie smiles. “Winona, Minnesota. She never left. I found her current address. I Googled the place where she lives. It’s an apartment building right near Winona State. I would guess she’s a student there.”
“So … do you think you should contact her?”
“When you came to my room, I was writing her a letter.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know if I’ll send it. I just wanted to get some things off my chest. But maybe I will finish writing it.” She stands. “Thanks for listening.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Don’t tell the others I found her.”
“I won’t.”
“For now, I’ll just say I’m going on the trip with you. Then we’ll see what happens.”
“What’s her last name?” I ask.
“Redmund. Haley Redmund.”
Hearing Haley’s name makes her suddenly so much realer to me. I see her as a long-haired, straight-mouthed girl, cautious in her dealings with strangers. I go over to Renie and hug her. She’s stiff as an ironing board, but she stands still and takes it.
“Good night,” she says, pulling away.
“Good night.”
She closes my door softly, and I go back to bed, but I can’t sleep. In the refrigerator is that cake. I put on my robe, tiptoe down the hall. As I pass Renie’s door, she opens it. “I forgot to get the Lively book from you,” she whispers. And then, “Where are you going?”
“Cake.”
“Right behind you,” she says.
THE NEXT MORNING, I GET A CALL FROM THE ARMS, ASKING IF I can come for an interview. It occurs to me to tell them I’m going away—I’m going to take that road trip no matter what—but I might as well get the interview over with. I have enough time to visit my mother on the way; I’ll stop by Cecil’s bakery for her.
When I get to my mother’s apartment, I knock on the door three times before she answers. And then she only cracks the door. She’s dressed in her robe but fully made up. “Are you going out?” I hold up the bakery bag. “Look what I got you.”
“Oh, sweetheart, not right now.”
“They’re those apricot pastries you like so much.” I start to come in, but she blocks me.
“I really have to finish getting ready.”
From the back of the apartment, I hear someone sneeze. It’s a man sneeze.
We stare at each other.
“Okay, well, I’ll just be going then,” I say. I start down the hall.
“Cecilia?”
I turn around reluctantly.
“Leave the pastry?”
I give her the bag, then start down the hall again.
“Thank you!” she calls after me, and I hold up my hand, You’re welcome.
I get into t
he car and sit there for a minute, then start it. Guess I’d better start calling ahead.
Ten minutes later, I’m parked in front of the Arms. It’s one of the smaller mansions on Summit, but it’s lovely. I sit looking at it for a while, wondering what people think about when they first come here to stay, knowing it’s very likely the last place they’ll be. I imagine that mixed in with the sadness there might be great relief. I hadn’t known that Penny had come to look at this place. By then, the person she confided in most was Brice. “Penny,” I say softly and feel the sting of tears that want to come.
Quit stalling. Get in there.
I go up the walkway and open the door to a foyer painted a butter-yellow color, the bead-and-leaf molding a creamy white. There is a graceful chandelier hanging over a large round table, a bouquet of flowers at the center. I see parrot tulips and what look like Madame Hardy roses, but before I can examine what else is there, I hear my name being called.
I turn to see a forty-something woman who looks so calm, so full of peace. She has a warm, wide smile, and eyes that go way, way back. Soft brown hair, pulled back at the sides. A purple top and a blue cardigan over black slacks. A long silver necklace. When she shakes my hand, she puts her other hand on top of ours clasped together. However irrationally, I feel as though I understand a lot about the deliberateness of the way she lives.
“Cecilia Ross?”
“Yes,” I say. “I go by Cece.”
“I’m Annie Sullivan,” she says, then adds, smiling, “Yup, the same name as Helen Keller’s Annie. Come on in.”