The doorbell rang and I jumped as though I’d been caught stealing. I went to the door to find Benny, looking up at me with a half smile. “Surprise! I came to help you unpack—I got done early with my other jobs.”
“Oh!” I said. “Good!”
“But I can come back.”
“Why?”
He laughed nervously, looked over at his house, then back at me. “Because . . . are you crying?”
“No!” I put my hands to my face and felt the wetness there. “Well, not anymore. Come in. Guess what I got?”
“Dr Pepper,” he said, striding in confidently and again dropping his coat in the hall. This time, though, I picked it up and hung it in the closet on what an efficient and rehab-minded part of my brain christened “Benny’s hook.” And then I confessed: It was the chocolate chips I’d wanted to tell him about; I’d forgotten to buy Dr Pepper.
He sighed. “That’s okay. Everybody does. Want to get to work now?”
I nodded, then followed him into the living room. Such a small person to be such a savior.
At ten o’clock I took a bath, then came downstairs to make a cup of tea and sit in the chaise to contemplate my finished living room. An hour earlier, I’d paid Benny twenty dollars and felt like a thief. He’d been tireless: except for a dinner break with his mom, he worked straight through until nine o’clock, when he headed home for bed. We’d unpacked every box, and though not everything was put away, at least I finally knew where everything was. Surely a celebration was in order.
I moved to the stereo and put on a Thelonious Monk CD I had always loved and John had always hated. There were these things, these random compensations. I stood listening for a while, thinking that no other musician made music talk for me the way Monk did. No one else had such a transparent sense of humor. My roommates had loved him, too: we’d nearly worn out the grooves in our only album.
I started to go to the computer but went instead to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I was going to find those women. I was going to find them and suggest a reunion. I called directory assistance and asked for Providence, Rhode Island, the town we’d all lived in so many years ago. There was no listing for Maddy, nothing for Susanna. But there was a number for a Lorraine Keaton. I wrote it down with a soaring excitement I tried to temper—what were the chances, after all? There was no answer, and no machine. I supposed she could be online, whoever this Lorraine was. Or ignoring call-waiting, the new etiquette. I’d read for a while, then try again.
Forty-five minutes later the number still rang, unanswered. Fifteen minutes after that it was the same. I turned out the lights and brought the number upstairs with me and put it on the bedside stand. In the morning, then. She’d always slept late; I’d call early.
I lay in the dark, full of an odd kind of surety. I only had a phone number, but it felt like a major accomplishment. And I somehow felt positive it was Lorraine’s. I wondered how she might look now. No doubt her hair had started graying, too. But I thought it must still be long, that would be her style. Long and wild. I wondered too if she could possibly have felt me thinking of her; if, when I called her, she’d felt some quick rush of knowing. Had she lifted her head from what she was doing to turn in the direction of me? Didn’t we all occasionally feel such hair-raising beckonings? How to account for déjà vu, for the other supernatural ephemera to which all of us were exposed but, for the most part, refused to acknowledge?
As for me, I liked things that couldn’t be explained. I liked outrageous statements of faith; defiant acts of belief that flew in the face of science and practicality. Día de los Muertos, for example: I loved the idea of bringing food and cigarettes to a grave site. The Japanese rite of sending out offerings on burning paper boats. The Irish custom of setting a place at the table for those who have gone on. I appreciated not only the intent behind such rituals but the form. In a curious mix of sacredness and absurdity, these things suggested—perhaps insisted—that the dead do not entirely leave us. Was it really only wishful thinking? Or was there old knowledge in our bones, a stubborn holding on to things ancient and true that, though they did not mold themselves to our current way of thinking, were nonetheless valid?
I resettled myself under the covers. Probably better not to think about such things now. In the morning I would make gingerbread, and on my most beautiful dish, I would set one piece aside. My little boat, anchored. Anchoring me.
I waited until Friday to try Lorraine again. Then, at half past seven in the morning, before I got out of bed, before I was fully awake, I dialed the number. No answer. I was becoming obsessed. But who cared? Who would know? It came to me how necessary the near presence of others was in keeping me civilized and sane; I could see how quickly I might become a woman gnawing a chicken leg over the kitchen sink for her dinner, a woman wandering around the rooms of her overly large house, talking aloud to no one. After my father died, I’d called my mother one night to see how she was doing. I’d asked what she’d had for dinner, and she’d said cereal. Straight out of the box. “Mom,” I’d said. And she’d said, “I know,” in a voice so thin and apologetic it broke my heart.
I hung up the phone, lay back, and pressed my fingers against my temples—I had a bad headache, probably from a poor night’s sleep. I’d awakened many times, suddenly very much frightened at being alone in this new place. The darkness had seemed alive, slithering about me like snakes, and turning on a light hadn’t helped much—it seemed as though that only irritated the blackness, pushing it into corners, where it waited with ratcheted-up intentions.
It had never happened in this way before, that I had felt so afraid at night. When John had gone on business trips, I’d sometimes gotten a little frightened. But that was a woman feeling a little nervous because she was used to someone being around—a woman who listens overly hard to a normal rattling in the pipes; a woman who puts her head under the pillow to hide from lightning. Sitcom fear. What I felt last night was different.
At one point I’d had a dream in which it seemed as though I were wrestling with a smoky-faced, slit-eyed, terrifying presence. I’d awakened wide-eyed and struggling to breathe, and I’d not been able to swallow—it was as though someone’s hands had been around my throat. I’d sat up quickly, so flushed, so hot, and then everything suddenly stopped—the terror seemed to crack open and fall away. There were my hands, clenched in my lap. There was the sound of my rapid breathing. There were the books stacked on my bedside table; there were the shadowy outlines of perfume bottles on my dresser. Eventually I’d fallen back into an uneasy sleep.
I splashed water on my face, put on my robe, and headed downstairs. Already my headache was receding. After I started the coffee, I went to the living room window to look out at the day. The temperature had risen again—what could have been snow became a downpour during the night, and now the sky was a redemptive blue, the pale pastel that often follows a rain. Birds sat in a convivial row on the nearby utility wire. Elongated drops of water hung beneath them, shimmying in the breeze. I watched the birds for a while, waiting for the invisible signal that would have them all lift off together, but it did not come. They sat content, enjoying their version of a coffee klatch.
Across the street, I saw a man dressed for work come out onto the porch for the newspaper, and I watched him hold his tie aside as he leaned down to pick it up. A memory of aftershave came to me, the smell of coffee and toast. And now the smell of John, that aphrodisiacal pocket between his neck and his shoulders. How long before memories of him would not intrude on almost every thought? How long did the real memorial service last?
Two doors down, a little girl came down the steps of her house. She hopped, her legs tightly together and her knees bent, making a game of her short descent. She was going to school, her backpack on, a pink lunch box in her hand. Farther down the block, a woman in a red plaid robe came out onto her porch to toss squares of bread to the squirrels gathered on her lawn. Her mouth moved; she was speaking to them, smiling. She tossed t
he last crumbs and stood for a moment with one hand on her hip, looking up to inspect the sky. Then she disappeared inside.
I watched to see who else might come out, but no one did; the only movement was of an airplane passing overhead. I watched it, imagining the people aboard straightening in their seats, looking down at where they would soon be arriving. From an airplane, the earth always looked so orderly, so gentle. So full of abundance and grace and purposeful intelligence. By day you could marvel at the precise patterns of the cultivated fields. At night, you could see clusters of lights, showing an obvious need for people to be near one another. Who would not be moved, looking down from such a distance, at the evidence of our great intentions?
I brought in the paper I’d ordered last week and went into the kitchen for coffee. I read the news and cut out a photograph I particularly liked: an old man on a city bus, sitting proudly erect and dressed in a three-piece suit. I would paste him into my scrapbook and imagine various destinations for him.
I stood to go to the cereal cabinet and was startled by the sight of Benny, his hair wetly combed, staring expectantly at me through the parted curtains.
I opened the door. “Did you knock? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping.”
“I was sitting right here at the table, reading the paper.”
He looked at the torn-out picture I held in my hand. “What’s that?”
I showed it to him. “You tell me.”
He shrugged, then grinned. “I don’t know!”
I looked at the picture again. “Well, where do you think he’s going? Maybe . . . to see his girlfriend?”
Benny looked again, then said, “Nah. He’s on the way to see the doctor. But it’s good news—he’s all better!”
I felt the cold now and pulled at the edges of my robe, tightening it across my chest. “So you were just standing there waiting? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, come on in.”
He glanced over at his house, where a car was backing out of the garage. “Uh-oh, too late, there’s my mom. I have to go to school.”
I came out onto the back porch and waved at Benny’s mother. She was pretty, a young-looking woman, her hair tastefully streaked. “Good morning!” I said. “I’m Betta Nolan. Thanks for the muffins!”
She shaded her eyes against the sun. “You’re welcome. I’m Carol Pacini. Has he been bugging you?”
“Not at all.”
She turned the car radio down, reached inside her blouse to hike up a bra strap. “Well, if he ever bothers you, just send him home.”
“He’s a pleasure. Really.”
“So are you able to come?”
I stared at her blankly.
“Didn’t Benny ask you to come to dinner tonight?”
“I didn’t have time!” Benny said.
“You’ve been there for ten minutes!”
“But she just now opened the door!”
“He didn’t knock,” I said, smiling.
She shook her head. “Get in the car, Benny.” And then, to me, “We’d like to have you over to dinner. Seven-thirty?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll bring dessert.”
Benny hopped into the car, and as it rolled past, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I returned the gesture, though, truth to tell, I didn’t know why.
The night before, I’d hung a calendar on the kitchen wall next to the phone. Now, on the square for today, I wrote: Dinner, 7:30. Then: Carol. Beneath that, in small print: Cranberry/blueberry pie. As though I could not be depended upon to remember anything.
But I did remember the phone number I’d been trying, and I dialed it again now. When a woman’s sleepy and highly irritated voice answered, I was so surprised I hung up. Then, gathering courage, I called right back.
“I’m going to kill you, whoever you are,” the woman said.
“Lorraine?”
“Yeeessss?”
“It’s . . . this is Betta Michaels.”
Silence.
“I think maybe we used to be roommates. Back in—”
“Where are you?”
“Is this the Lorraine Keaton who—”
“Betta. Where are you?”
“Well, I was in Boston forever, but I just moved to a little town outside Chicago. Because my husband died and I . . . just moved here. I’ve been calling and calling you!”
“Your husband died?”
“Yeah.”
“God. I’m sorry. Who did you marry? That guy you met right after you moved away?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You guys seemed inseparable right away.”
“Yes, we were. So anyway, I’m Betta Nolan, now. What about you? Are you married?”
She laughed, that old familiar sound. “Are you kidding? Only to the theater. I was in Canada on a visiting directorship, and when I go away I only use my cell phone for messages—that’s why you couldn’t reach me.”
“Well, I . . . I’m so glad I found you! I was trying to call all of you—Maddy, Susanna . . .”
“We’re still friends; we see each other all the time. They live in California, in Mill Valley, about six blocks from each other. I stayed here. You got lost. What’s your address and phone number, give it to me.”
After we’d exchanged information, she said, “Listen, I’m really late for an appointment. I’ll call you back. What time is good for you?”
“Anytime. I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”
“Are you okay, Betta?”
Her at that kitchen table, leaning toward me, her strong heart-shaped face and clear eyes. “Betta? Are you okay? Just tell me.”
“No.”
“I’ll call you back.”
When I hung up, I pulled in a breath that seemed to break through a membrane and move down to where it had needed to be and could not, until now, go. I looked at the newspaper photo I was still holding, then went to tape it into the current suede scrapbook. It came to me to paste a penny beside the picture. Because . . . because the man on the bus was on his way to see old friends he’d recently rediscovered. In his pocket was a lucky penny, which he relied on in ways he would be embarrassed to admit to. Also in his pocket were the keys to his apartment in the retirement community where he lived. He was popular with the women for his waltzing skills, and he had a tiny garden in which he grew tomatoes and marigolds. Also in his pocket he carried butterscotch candies. And a wallet with the folding money neatly arranged in order of denomination, all the presidents’ faces facing up. Rudolph was the old man’s first name. I’d let Benny give him his last name. Rudolph was full of happiness; his heart was light with this unexpected gift that had come to him so late in life. Arthur and Douglas, there on the phone, after all these years, shouting to make themselves heard, but they were heard. He could hardly wait to see what his friends looked like now, though he knew he would also always see them as they were. Maybe they’d roll up their pant legs and try for some catfish. It would be harder, sitting on the bumpy riverbank now, but Rudolph thought they’d be able to do it. He thought they could.
After I ate breakfast—gingerbread with lemon sauce, but! properly seated at the kitchen table and therefore not disturbingly eccentric—I went upstairs, showered, and began to put linens away. I saw that they were getting worn; tomorrow I’d buy some new ones in a color that would coordinate better with my bathroom here. There was much to be said for the domestic high afforded by new towels and washcloths, folded and stacked in sybaritic readiness.
In the folds of one of the towels, I felt something. I lay the towel in my lap to open it carefully—I’d learned that the movers sometimes threw random things in places where they didn’t belong. I’d found the key to wind the mantel clock in with my underwear; and Benny had found a spatula nestled amid throw pillows for the sofa. What was here was a camera, with an unfinished roll of film in it.
I s
at still for a moment, my heart racing, wondering if it was pictures I took or that John did. Neither of us was ever very good about taking photos, and we were even worse about getting film developed promptly; I think we’d both enjoyed the element of surprise that came from looking at pictures months—or even years—after we’d taken them. No matter who took the photographs, there was every possibility that there were some of the two of us together, hands linked casually. Unknowing. There was every possibility that I’d find a photo of a healthy and smiling John that I’d never seen before. Another gift of him, when I’d thought the gifts were through.
I walked to town and dropped the film off at a one-hour place that was part of a camera store, then looked again into the empty windows of the store for rent. Probably I should call; I might be able to afford it even with the apartment, and then I could use that part for an office and storage. I shielded my eyes to peer inside. The place was dirty; there were large, flat pieces of wood resting against one of the back walls. How did one go about this, really? What was the first step? Did you have to hire an architect, or could you draw up your own plans? It was overwhelming, all you had to think about. I wasn’t ready.
I shopped for the ingredients I needed to make the pie. After that, I went to Cuppa Java to wait the thirty minutes I had left. I was the only customer. The two employees, a young man and woman, stood in the back room talking in low, laughing voices. I ordered a cocoa, which was served in a mug that was to my way of thinking all wrong. A cocoa mug needed to be low and wide, easily able to accommodate the many marshmallows that should be floating around in there. In my store, I would have such mugs. I would have Dutch cocoa and long glass jars of vanilla beans. I would have chocolate-colored pajamas to go with the cocoa, brown flannel with red piping. To accompany this, I would have Joanne Harris’s book Chocolat as well as Leah Cohen’s most excellent Glass, Paper, Beans, because even though it talked about coffee, it also talked about mugs and therefore went with cocoa.