Twenty

by Debra Landwehr Engle

  Joe didn’t fit his family. He saw that all of them were on a self-destructive path, and he couldn’t save them. When he was seventeen, trying to defend his mom, he punched his dad in the face and broke his nose. His dad kicked him out of the house, and Joe never went back, divorcing himself from all of them.

  With Joe’s even temper, he understood his family’s patterns from the time he could walk, and he decided not to be bitter. He just didn’t want to be like them or with them.

  He was direct, like Rose, but gentle about it. He never raised his voice. He just asked questions. It drove him crazy when I withdrew into myself and shut him out. Some men joke about liking the quiet treatment, but not Joe. He figured any problem could be solved if we just took it out and looked at it together. But I hid my feelings a lot and, in his view, came to conclusions that didn’t take all the information into account. When I felt scared or angry or worried, I usually blamed myself, and I’d hide rather than looking at things in the light.

  Joe never criticized me for that tendency, but he worked with Rose to make sure she could face down a problem and not be afraid of it; then he taught her the skills to figure things out. Some evenings, the scavenger hunts he set up for her led to a special prize. Maybe tickets to the amusement park or a new book on bugs.

  He’d give her the first clue, which might lead to a bucket in our garage or the crook in her favorite tree. The next clue might take her to a flowerpot on the stoop or a hole in one of the railroad ties edging our flower beds. On and on she’d go, finding her way, not giving up, searching until she found the next clue. He’d go with her to help if she got way off course, but he let her figure out the clues and the next moves herself. And if she made a mistake, he didn’t give her the right answer.

  “I want her to be as capable as you are,” Joe once told me. We were standing outside on a spring evening, watching Rose and Cricket running through the yard for the next clue.

  “You think I’m capable?” I said. I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I honestly didn’t see myself that way.

  “Of course,” he said, surprised by my own doubts. “You’ve always been there for your mom and Holly, and now for me and Rose. None of us would know what to do without you.”

  I leaned against him and put my arms around his waist.

  “In fact,” he said, “sometimes I think you worry about us too much. You can share those burdens with me, you know.”

  “I know,” I said.

  He was right, but I always had a hard time letting go.

  * * *

  Mama and I always got along pretty well, even during my teenage years. The angriest I ever saw her was the summer before my senior year in high school. She was scheduled to judge the flowers at the State Fair and was headed to town early. I’d been out with some friends the night before, and I neglected to get the beer bottles out of the car before Mama went to use it the next day.

  She came roaring into my bedroom at seven a.m. like the wrath of God, holding a beer bottle in one hand and the car keys in the other.

  “Were you drinking last night?” she yelled. I sat up in bed and cowered, afraid she was going to hit me. I’d never felt such anger from her before.

  “No,” I said. “The others were, but they had me drive.”

  “What do you mean, they were drinking?” she yelled. “None of you is old enough to drink. Let me smell your breath,” she said, towering over me.

  She leaned in to take a whiff, then backed off since there was no evidence, and I could see her shoulders slump.

  “You know that train conductor was drunk,” she said, as though we’d just been talking about Daddy and picked up in the middle of the conversation.

  Mama never talked about the accident. I had no idea.

  “No, Mama, I didn’t,” I said quietly.

  “Well, you’re going to tell me who you were out with, and I’ll be on the phone with those parents,” she said. I cringed. “And you’re grounded until school starts.”

  Two weeks. I seethed for the rest of the day, snapping at Holly and holing up in my room all day to read and listen to music.

  “What got into her, anyway?” I said to Holly when I came out of my room to fix a sandwich for lunch. “I’ve never seen her that mad.”

  She looked at me as if I’d turned green. “Really?” she said. “You don’t think she might be just a little emotional about Daddy?”

  “Well, how was I to know?” I said, putting up the jar of peanut butter. “She never told me about the train conductor. Did you know?”

  “Nope, first I’ve heard of it,” Holly said. “But beer bottles in the car? C’mon. You’ve got to admit, that was pretty stupid.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “next time I’ll stop at the Dumpster by Ted’s Market on the way home.”

  And I did. Years later, when Joe and I were married and he helped Mama go through old financial records, I found out why she was so on edge that summer.

  “Did you know your mom almost lost the acreage?” he said one day while he was browning sausage for breakfast.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Eight years ago,” he said. “She was behind on property taxes, and the bank almost put the place into foreclosure.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, gripping my coffee cup. “She never told us a thing about it.”

  “Well, I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you,” Joe said. “You know how independent she is. And she always wanted to protect you and Holly.”

  I thought back and remembered her mood around that time. Fragile, emotional. Her reaction to the beer bottles was part of a larger pattern, but I’d been too caught up in my own adolescent angst to notice.

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “Larry Willis helped her restructure the debt,” Joe said. “And she sold the parcel of land at the back of the property to the Logans. That gave her enough cash to get up to date.”

  “That’s why she sold it?” I sat back in my chair, remembering. “She told us she wanted to downsize since Holly and I would be going off to college, blah, blah, blah. She never let on about any financial trouble.”

  “Well, don’t tell her I told you,” he said, putting our breakfast dishes in the sink. “I’m supposed to keep these things in confidence, but I just thought you should know. In my experience, keeping secrets eventually takes its toll.”

  DAY SEVEN

  This morning I woke up with a sense of purpose. Wound the clock. Fed the cats. I’ve only seen two of the kittens in the past couple of days, but I am determined not to worry.

  Then I took care of one of the most urgent items on my “bucket list” and went to see Larry Willis to make some changes in my will. He’s been our family lawyer for as long as I can remember. He set up a memorial fund for Rose. He handled my divorce and Mama’s estate. She always used to say that he knew more of the intimate details about us than anyone outside the family.

  I parked outside his office on the square and went in for our appointment the same as always. This time, though, I saw things I’ve never noticed before.

  In the reception area, a TV was tuned to CNN. While I sat for a few minutes, I couldn’t help but hear the news of the latest mass shooting. I felt that I’d been ripped out of slumber, seeing the event in a new way. For the first time I can remember, I felt no anger toward the shooter. Just a sense of peace that things will be okay. I couldn’t explain it.

  When I went into Larry’s office, I saw his diplomas on the wall. He graduated from Notre Dame. Did I ever know that? Surely I did somewhere along the way. But does he have two children or three? Are they still in college? Is he a grandpa? He must be by now, but I couldn’t say for sure. Where have I been? Why don’t I know these things about a man I’ve known my whole life, who has played such a big role in my family at the most significant times in our history?

  He looked a little older, a little grayer than when I saw him last. “Something’s different,” I said as we sat down in his
office. “Do you have a new pair of glasses?”

  “Yes,” he said, “the wife finally convinced me to update my frames. I don’t know why.” He smiled. “Every ten years or so is good enough for me. But apparently she wanted me to look a little more up-to-date in our son’s wedding photos.”

  Ah, an answer to one question, anyway. Normally I would have glazed over it and gone on with our business. But I stopped this time.

  “Is the wedding coming up?”

  “No,” he said, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased to talk. He turned around and took a photo off the shelf behind him. “They got married in June. Traditional all the way.”

  I looked at the photo—really looked—where normally I’d give it a glance and go on.

  His son looked just like him. Tall, dark hair, trim build, and softness around the eyes. He beamed next to his bride, a brunette in a strapless white gown who looked completely comfortable in her own skin.

  “They’re a beautiful couple,” I said. “I’m embarrassed that I can’t remember your son’s name.”

  “Larry Junior,” he said. More embarrassment.

  “And his wife is Liz. They live in St. Paul . . . happy as clams.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “I hope you get to see them as often as you like.”

  “Sure thing,” he said, setting the photo back on the shelf. “Our family likes to get together. Anytime we can have a golf game and a barbecue, we’ve got an excuse to visit.”

  It sounded like a good life. Like all anyone would need.

  “So,” he said, “tell me how I can help you today.”

  “I’d like to make some changes to my will,” I said. I surprised myself at how matter-of-fact I sounded, as though I was ordering ground beef at the butcher counter.

  “All right,” he said, taking a more businesslike tone. “I’d be happy to help.” He looked me in the eye and said, “I have to ask, is there anything that’s prompting you to make the change right now?”

  He wanted to know if I was sick. If I was dying. It was my chance to say it out loud, to get it out in the open, to send up an SOS if I wanted.

  “No, nothing in particular,” I said. “It’s just been on my mind lately, and I thought I’d get it taken care of.”

  “Certainly,” he said, turning around to his computer. “Let me pull up your file.”

  Within half an hour, I reallocated my savings, including my inheritance from Mama, moving most of it from the children’s hospital to the trust funds for Holly’s kids. I’m glad Holly will get all the proceeds from the sale of the acreage. It’s only fair, when I’ve been living there rent-free since Mama died. Holly said it was the least she could do to repay me for taking care of Mama, but now it’s Holly’s turn to reap some rewards. I know she and Phil are stressing about college tuition, so this will help ease the burden.

  Larry printed out the amended will and had me sign it, and I gathered up my purse to leave. “So, everything is going okay for you, Meg?” he said. “You keep looking younger all the time. You must have a secret.”

  “Guess I just have good genes,” I said.

  * * *

  When I got home, I tied my hair up with one of Mama’s handkerchiefs, put on a tank top and old shorts, and started taking more boxes out of the shed. I want to get this cleaning done before I leave for Seattle.

  In one of the boxes, I found the art supplies we bought when Rose was little. I can see her at age five in her jeans and T-shirt, that thick hair pulled back in a ponytail and one of my old aprons wrapped around her, practically chin to toe. We put an easel under the oak tree near the back door, where she’d paint for an hour at a time.

  We couldn’t believe her attention span at such a young age, but she barely moved, fully absorbed, painting pictures of the hills and the trees or our family. Her artwork always included bugs and bats crawling in the landscape or flying overhead.

  I suppose a therapist might have read some dark meaning into that obsession, but critters were nothing but joy for her. She learned words like centipede and arachnid at an early age and could tell you exactly what they meant. The word guano, as in bat dung, was one of her favorites, and she said it with pure glee.

  One day she skipped over to the class bully on the playground, looked him right in the eye, and said, “You’re guano,” then skipped away. I don’t know if she got away with it because she seemed so innocent or because he didn’t know she’d just compared him to a pile of manure.

  * * *

  It surprised me to find those paints and brushes in the shed. I’m not sure why I kept them after Rose died. But there they were, right next to three shelves of paint cans. When I saw those, I suddenly felt tired.

  For one thing, the heat made it hard to breathe. I opened the doors and hoped for a breeze, but the atmosphere felt just as oppressive. I got an extension cord and old box fan from the basement, but even that just stirred up the thick air.

  I was determined not to quit, though, no matter how much energy it took to make a decision about every one of those cans.

  As I picked them up and set them on the floor of the shed, I could tell most were half empty, and some were from our old house. I must have moved them to Mama’s and stored them with hers. Joe and I painted many rooms over the years—Rose’s nursery, our kitchen, every room inside Mama’s house. Maybe it was time to paint again.

  Well, that’s silly, I thought. I don’t need a fresh coat of paint on the walls now.

  I read the names of the colors on the labels: Teakwood Brown. Nut Butter. Cotton Candy. Golden Delicious.

  Mama might not have had a man around to keep everything in good repair, but her store of paint helped her keep it all looking fresh and trim. She used to say, “Don’t get sad, get busy.”

  As soon as she saw something looking dingy, she got out the brushes and stepladder and cleaned it up. She referred to paint as her fix-all. “You can spend five thousand dollars on remodeling or fifty dollars on paint, and you won’t be able to tell the difference,” she used to say.

  That’s why the kitchen cabinets dated back to the time before I was born, and the bathroom still had its original black-and-white tile on the floor.

  “See?” Mama would say, pushing the latest Better Homes and Gardens under my nose. “The bathroom’s back in style again.”

  “Yeah, for the third time,” I’d say.

  I lined up all the cans and looked at them, thinking how hard it would be to dispose of them properly. It would mean a trip to the recycling center either for me or Holly. So I picked up a screwdriver and started prying them open.

  I found colors that reminded me of when I was a teenager and we painted signs for Mama’s antiques business and put them out by the road.

  And I found colors that surprised me—colors I hadn’t ever seen used in the house. Bright shades of purple and teal, raspberry and lemon yellow. “Where did these come from?” I wondered. Maybe Mama had stored them for friends who forgot them. Maybe she bought them for furniture she never got around to. Maybe she thought I’d use them someday.

  Some just had a quarter inch of dried-out paint at the bottom, cracked and flaking, but others were almost full. I found the lavender we used for the nursery the first time I got pregnant. The color stayed with us through all the miscarriages and Rose.

  I opened up the soft greens and tans of the living room and kitchen. The bright fuchsia I used in a misguided moment in the bathroom.

  Some had been sitting so long that they were white when I looked in the tranquil pool of the bucket. As I stirred, I watched the colors come to life before my eyes. One showed a faint hint of orange before morphing into a vibrant coral. Another seemed iron gray until cornflower blue emerged.

  The stirring put me into a reverie, and I had an experience that has been occurring more often lately.

  Doing something totally mundane turns into a feeling I can’t describe. Harmony, maybe. I actually felt myself with the paint instead of thinking about five
other things at the same time. It was as though I’ve lived my whole life through a Plexiglas shield or a plastic bag, everything buffered and filtered and muffled through some layer of fear. And now I felt present, engaged. Alive.

  Then, all of a sudden, a pesky fly jolted me back.

  It’s too damn hot out here, I thought, especially when another hot flash hit and I wanted to jump out of my body.

  I carried a few paint cans into the house where I could look at them in the air-conditioning and figure out what to do. I lined them up on the kitchen table and thought back to the time when Holly and I were little and we drew on the wall.

  Mama didn’t scold us. She stood back, looked at our artwork, said we were budding Picassos, then bought us an easel and big pads of paper.

  Something came over me, as if I was seven years old again. I looked at the kitchen wall, and for the first time saw it as it could be. Without hesitation, I took the pictures down and piled them in the living room. Then I set the hanging spice cabinet on the counter, and I pulled the table and chairs out from the wall.

  No clock. No towel rack. No knickknacks. Just a blank canvas, beckoning me.

  I picked up a paintbrush, dipped it in a can of apple green, and drew it across the wall in a wide swooping arc, almost from one end to the other.

  Abandon. Play. No neat lines, no defined spaces. Just one big easel and permission to fill it with whatever I wanted. I opened another paint can and another and brushed colors on the wall wherever they wanted to go.

  It felt deliciously illegal, as though I was breaking all my own codes of coloring within the lines.

  I dipped the brush in the paint again and made another swirl. It felt so freeing, as though the motion unlocked a door I hadn’t gone through in a long time. So I opened another can, teal this time, and got another brush and put more swirls on the wall. After fifteen minutes, I stepped back to look at the wall and literally gasped at what I saw.

  I’ve started something. I don’t know what. But it’s my colored lights, the swirls of comfort I’ve missed since I was seven. Here they are, for real now, for everyone to see.