What’s wrong with me, God? What’s happening?
“You okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine, honey. Just fine.” When had she become such a good liar?
They talked for more than an hour over lunch. Lois said they would come up for a visit at the end of summer. Tim had a summer job lined up, but he would be able to take a little time off by then.
Friends came by the booth. Tim leaned over and kissed her. “I love you, Mom. Don’t stay away too long.” And then he was gone, the chick flying from the nest and joining the flock heading south to the beach.
Lois and Eunice walked out to the car. “Are you angry with me, Euny?”
“No, Mom. Don’t ever think that.” She felt left out, left behind, alone, and lonely. But how did she dare admit to those feelings without sounding as though she were wallowing in self-pity? “I’m thankful, Mom, but it hurts.” Tim was where he belonged. He was growing in Christ here. In Centerville, he had been under a microscope. All eyes on him, and none too kindly. Especially the eyes of his own father.
As soon as they arrived at the condo, Eunice packed her things and set the overnight case by the front door. Lois looked worried. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”
“I wish I knew.” Then again, maybe she didn’t.
“Why don’t you stay for another day, Euny? We haven’t really had a chance to talk.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t . . . or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
If she stayed one more day, she might never go home at all.
Samuel rose slowly at the sound of the doorbell. He wasn’t eager to talk with the Realtor, but knew he needed to think over all his options. Selling the house was one of them. He opened the door and faced an attractive young woman wearing a yellow spring dress that reminded him of something Abby had worn years ago. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looked past her and saw the car parked in front of the house. A Cadillac. Apparently Mrs. Lydikson was a successful Realtor.
“May I come in, Mr. Mason?”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He unlatched the screen and opened the door. He had called her, after all. The least he could do was let her look around and give him a ballpark figure of what his little bungalow was worth. “Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Lydikson?”
“You needn’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s already made.”
“Then, yes.” She smiled. “That would be nice.”
He ushered her into the kitchen. “Have a seat.”
She looked out the windows. “You have a lovely backyard, Mr. Mason. And a large lot.”
“Abby and I bought this place right after the war.” He set a cup and saucer on the table and poured. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black, thanks.”
A businesswoman. Abby had always poured in a dollop of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. He took a seat and rested his hands on the Formica table.
Mrs. Lydikson lifted her cup. Her brows rose slightly. “This is great coffee.”
“My wife taught me how to make it.”
“Will she be joining us?”
“She passed away several years ago.”
“Oh.” She put her cup down. “I’m so sorry.”
“You had no way of knowing.” He was having second thoughts about selling. Every nook and cranny of this house reminded him of Abby.
Mrs. Lydikson seemed to read his mind. “Are you sure you want to sell, Mr. Mason? I mean, when we talked, you seemed to have made up your mind.”
“I’m checking over my options. Selling my home is one of them.”
“It’s a hot market.”
“So I’ve heard.” Several of his neighbors had sold and moved. One had gone to Nebraska to live close to his daughter. Another couple had moved into a pricey retirement community that wouldn’t allow anyone under fifty-five to move in and had rules about yards, cars, and guests. Not to mention the homeowners’ association dues. But the couple liked golf, and they would have easy access to a course as long as they had strength to climb in a cart and swing a club.
Samuel wasn’t interested in golf. “Why don’t you look around the house? Tell me what you think.”
“All right.” She set her cup down and rose.
Samuel stayed at the kitchen table, staring out at his backyard. Abby had helped him put in the Red Blaze climbing roses that were spilling over the back fence. She’d picked out the crepe myrtle and the Washington thorn tree. The last time he’d mowed the lawn, he’d been so tired he couldn’t get out of bed the next day. And there didn’t seem to be any teenagers around anymore who were willing to make five dollars to mow a lawn and do a little weeding. They wanted ten dollars an hour or they wouldn’t even talk to you. He had a nice little pension and Social Security, but it didn’t stretch far enough to pay for weekly services like gardening and housekeeping.
Still, he always looked forward to Wednesday evening Bible study. He loved the people who came. He loved their eagerness to learn the Word. He loved the way they had melded together like a family. And he enjoyed being spoiled by Charlie and Sally Wentworth, who had gotten into the habit of bringing him a nice hot meal. Whatever the diner special was—meat loaf, roast beef, fried chicken. It was the best meal he had all week, except for Sunday dinner at Millie Bruester’s. The rest of the time, he lived off TV dinners. Sometimes all he felt like eating was a bowl of cereal.
The Bible study was what worried him most. If he sold his home, would the group disband? Would their zeal diminish? Half of those attending were fairly new Christians. The other half had been sitting in church pews for years, but didn’t know anything about the Bible. They were all like his children. He felt a paternal affection for each and every one of them.
He had to remind himself repeatedly that God loved each of them even more than he did, and God would make certain that the work He had started in them would be completed. Samuel wasn’t the Holy Spirit. He wasn’t irreplaceable.
But sometimes it was nice to think he would be missed.
He had been praying about his situation for months, and the answer seemed to be to sell and move. But it was hard to pull up roots that had sunk so deep. He was eyebrow deep in good memories here.
Mrs. Lydikson returned from her tour of the house. “Do you mind if I go outside?”
“Please. Be my guest.”
He watched her walk to the edge of the patio and look around. She looked back at the house. Checking on the condition of the roof, most likely. He saw her smile and give a slight nod before she walked briskly to the back door. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Mason. It’s a real charmer.”
“Thank you.”
She had come prepared with comps, and laid out several other houses that were on the market, in escrow, or had sold. When she told him what the house was worth, he couldn’t believe it. “That much?”
She laughed. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s just a three-bedroom bungalow.”
“A very charming, beautifully maintained American bungalow in an established neighborhood in a small town with good schools.”
“Abby and I bought this place for forty-eight hundred dollars.” That had seemed like a fortune to them at the time, a mortgage that would keep them working hard for years to come.
Her eyes were sparkling. “Things have gone up a little since that time.”
“I guess so.” How did young couples manage to survive when they had to pay so much for a house? If he sold, he would have enough money to live at the Vine Hill Residential Apartments until he was over a hundred. Of course, the money wouldn’t go that far if he ended up in a convalescent hospital. Always a possibility when you reached his age.
Poor old King Solomon knew what he was talking about in Ecclesiastes. Samuel’s limbs trembled after an hour of working in the garden. Unlike Solomon, he had the blessing of modern conveniences. He could chew with dentures. He could see with bifocals. He could hear with his hearing aid, provided he remembered to have the pharma
cist replace the battery. He had a cane, but one of these days in the not-too-distant future, he’d be needing a walker.
As for sleeping, he hadn’t made it through a night in a month of Sundays. If chirping crickets didn’t awaken him, his bladder did, and the bird brigades started their wars at dawn. Lack of nighttime sleep wasn’t a problem. He slept like a baby every afternoon in his recliner, lulled by the drone of his television. He was white haired and withering, toothless and dragging along slower every day. He’d gotten to the point where he sat on the porch watching for the mailman so that he wouldn’t have to make the trip down the steps. It might be only three feet down, but at his age, he might as well fall out a three-story window.
No one but the Lord knew what the future held. All Samuel wanted was to be a good steward with the resources God had given him, and he prayed fervently that his body wouldn’t outlive his mind.
Mrs. Lydikson talked about the market, how she would get the word out, what advertising she would do. “I’ve learned from experience that few buyers come from newspaper advertisements.” A sign would be out front with leaflets. “If people come to your door, don’t let them in unless they’re accompanied by a Realtor.” She felt it was most productive to spread word through the Realtors in the area. They met every week, and she would push his house every time. “We can film the inside and outside of the house for our Web site. People can log on and take a virtual tour.”
The world was changing too fast for him. Mrs. Lydikson was full of enthusiasm and energy. He was worn out just listening to her. She had no doubt his home would sell. In fact, she’d be surprised if it lasted on the market for longer than a week.
A week? Panic gripped him. What would he do if his home sold in a week? Was there an apartment available at Vine Hill? What was he going to do with all his furniture and knickknacks and pictures? What about the lawn chairs and glass table with the umbrella?
Mrs. Lydikson kept talking. It would help if he had a pest inspector come and do a report. “That would save time and trouble, and it gives a buyer a feeling of confidence.” She asked if he thought the house might have termites. He said no. The house was built with Northern California redwood. And he’d always checked over the house for dry rot. Then she told him about disclosure statements. People didn’t trust anyone anymore.
He couldn’t think of anything that was wrong with the house other than that the appliances were all old. “Not as old as I am, but they’ve been around for a long time. Except for the microwave.”
Having dispensed and received all the information she needed, she thanked him for the coffee and rose to leave. “I’ll have the paperwork ready for you to sign tomorrow.” That gave him twenty-four hours to think about it some more. He had her business card. He could call her if he changed his mind. He knew he wouldn’t. If he did, it would only mean a short delay before the inevitable.
As soon as she left, Samuel sank into his easy chair, exhausted and depressed.
He awakened to the doorbell. Surprised, he realized it was dusk and he had slept three solid hours. Charlie and Sally Wentworth were at the door with a boxed dinner. “Are you okay, Sam?”
He felt rumpled and ancient. “I will be as soon as I freshen up. Come on in and make yourselves to home.”
“We’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
Sally had washed the cups and saucers and was putting them away when he came in. She’d set out silverware and a napkin and put the dinner they’d brought on one of Abby’s favorite Blue Willow plates. Ham, mashed potatoes, and peas, with peach cobbler for dessert. “You two spoil me.”
Sally grinned. “It’s entirely our pleasure. Take a load off your feet.” She poured him a cup of coffee. “It’s decaf. New brand. Customers like it.”
She and Charlie kept up a running commentary of Centerville residents. They never said a bad word about anyone and Samuel soaked up the news. When he finished the sumptuous supper, he thanked them and rose to clear his dishes. “Sit. Sit.” Sally picked up his plate. “It’ll take me thirty seconds to wash, dry, and put it away.”
He told them about Mrs. Lydikson.
Charlie folded his hands on the table. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. That’s a lot of yard to keep up out there, Samuel. I couldn’t do it, and I’m thirty years younger than you.”
“What I’m most concerned about is the Bible study.” He looked between Sally and Charlie. “I don’t want to see it end.”
Charlie shrugged. “No reason it has to.”
“Who’s going to teach it, Charlie? You?”
“Not me! You’re not saying you’re going to leave the area, Samuel. Are you?”
“I’ve got an application in at Vine Hill.” One lady was going to be moving into the convalescent hospital within the month. And they never knew from one week to the next if someone else might die and leave an apartment available.
“Well, Monday nights, we’re closed. What do you say we switch the class to that night and move the study to the diner?”
Sally laughed. “You’re a genius, honey! Why didn’t I think of it? If we offered dessert, we could really pack them in. Thirty instead of twelve. Are you giving up your driver’s license, Samuel?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well, if you do, Charlie can pick you up and take you home afterward.”
Charlie was watching closely. “You okay with this, Samuel? It was just a thought. Don’t let Sally go over you like a Mack truck.”
Samuel felt good, real good. “Sounds fine to me. For the time being. But I’m not going to live forever, you know.” One of these days he was going to leave this tired, worn-out body and go to be with the Lord and Abby.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, “but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”
Everyone at the Bible study thought the idea of moving the study group to the diner on Monday nights was a good one. “I know four people who have been wanting to come to the study, but knew there wasn’t enough room.”
“So it’s settled. We can give it a dry run next week, if you’d like.”
Everyone was gung ho. “When the house sells, we’ll help you pack and move, Samuel.” Everyone agreed to that as well.
When the For Sale sign was posted on the white picket fence out front, Samuel sat in his recliner and cried. He dozed after a while and dreamed of Abby as he often did. “So what do you say about all this, Abby?”
“I say it’s about time, you old coot.” She was needling him as always, her blue eyes as alive as they’d ever been.
“Well, I wasn’t sure. It’s a big decision, you know.”
“You’re up to it. Who knows what the Lord will do, Samuel? You’ve got time to serve yet, you know.”
In his dreams, he could still talk with Abby in the back garden. He could sip her homemade lemonade and hold her hand or watch her bustle about the kitchen and hear her laugh. In his dreams, he took long walks with her. Once they had flown high on wings like eagles. In his dreams, his body didn’t hold him down. There was no such thing as gravity. Anything was possible. Sometimes he even had a glimpse, the faintest glimmer, of heaven.
“Where are you going?”
“You know where.”
“I want to come along.”
“Not yet, Samuel. Thy will, not mine, be done. Remember?”
“But, Abby . . . ”
“All in God’s time, my love.”
“Abby!”
It was the awakening that always brought back his frailty. And sorrow with it.
Eunice saw the sign for Rockville and thought of Stephen Decker. How long had it been since she’d seen him? It was even longer since they’d talked. She debated stopping by to see how he was doing. Samuel had told the Bible study group that Stephen was leading his own group now. That pleased her very much. She had seen him grow as a Christian over the years. It was a pity he and Paul weren’t still friends. Considering the character assassination Paul had allowed, she doubted they could e
ver be friends again.
The exit came up and she pulled off the highway. Paul wouldn’t miss her. He always played golf with one of the board members after Sunday services. Unless he had another call for emergency counseling. That had happened more often lately. Even though VNLC now had two psychologists on staff, Paul had a hard time letting go of anything.
Rockville was a quaint little town with a wide main street, high-false-front, Western-style buildings, tree-lined streets. She had no difficulty finding Stephen Decker’s place. She’d looked up his address once, but changed her mind about stopping by then.
The front door was wide open. Her heart quickened when she saw Stephen. She hadn’t expected that, and debated turning around, getting back in her car, and driving away before he noticed her. Instead, she stood rooted, her heart in her throat. He was at a table, several books spread out around him, his Bible open. He was jotting down notes. When he lifted his head, her stomach dropped at the look on his face.
“Eunice?”
“I’m sorry if I interrupted. I just thought I’d drop by on my way home and see how you’re doing.” She knew it was a mistake, but didn’t know how to turn around now and walk away without adding insult to injury.
“Centerville is north.”
“I was in Los Angeles visiting Tim.”
He rose slowly from his stool. “You’re thinner.”
She felt a slight fluttering in her stomach. “Older, too.” Her laugh came out flat. Why had she come here? What impulse had driven her? “I was here once before. A long time ago.” She looked around. “Of course, I didn’t come inside the building. I just looked through the window.” She looked up at him, and the warmth in his eyes stirred her. “When it was first given to the church.”
He frowned, perplexed. “Given to the church?”
“You didn’t know?” She was relieved. “This was the property bequeathed to Centerville Christian. It belonged to one of the founding members. I never met the gentleman. He lived in a convalescent hospital north of Sacramento. We didn’t even know about him until Paul received word that Bjorn Svenson had left his property to the church.”
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