She hesitated, tapping the mail absentmindedly against her thigh.
“All right. But I’m paying for myself!”
“Well!” Arthur said. “That’ll teach me.”
But in the end, he paid for everything, the bus, the meal, everything. They made up, and he was surprised at the relief he felt.
Lucille’s been gone a lot in the evenings, he never much sees her on the porch anymore when he takes his walks. She didn’t say anything about it at their dinner, and he didn’t want to bring it up, lest she tell him it was none of his business. But last night he saw her get into a car, a big red Cadillac, no less! He couldn’t make out the driver, and then figured it could very well be that she had family in town. That happened now and then, she’d be off every night and then, suddenly, she’d be abandoned again, back to sitting on her porch and calling out to him. He’s her regular.
He sits on his chair, his back bent, and stares at Nola’s headstone. Then he stands and moves closer so that he can trace the letters of her name. “Hello, Nola,” he says. “I’m here.” He falls silent, imagining her face, imagining her in one of her aprons; that woman always did love a pretty apron. He imagines her in the kitchen turning around and saying, “What are you doing home so soon?” with great happiness. He’d come home two hours early that day, feeling ill. Just a cold, but a bad one. She’d put him to bed and then went out to get the fixings for chicken soup. While it simmered on the stove, she’d lain on the bed beside him still in her apron and asked him if he would like to talk or would he like her to read the paper to him; he hadn’t had time to read it that morning. She’d laid her hand on his forehead and got up to bring him aspirin. He’d had the life of a king! She’d smelled like rose perfume and she got him anything he asked for! And he did the same for her, when she fell ill. He held her hand and stroked it. He put violets in a glass by her bed. 7UP, soda crackers. He got her whatever she needed. He left her alone when she said she wanted to be alone, which Nola mostly did when she was ill; she once said, “For God’s sake, Arthur, let me sleep!” And so he let her sleep. But don’t think he wasn’t at the threshold of their bedroom checking on her every little while. Watching for the regular rise and fall of her chest.
He stands there for another minute, then goes back to sit in the chair and pull out his sandwich.
“Arthur?” he hears, and at first he thinks it’s Nola and he holds stock-still, ready; he’s been ready for this since the moment she died.
But it’s not Nola, it’s that girl, Maddy, standing a few graves away.
“Hey,” she says, all somber.
“Hey,” he replies, the same way, and she smiles. Sort of.
“Want some company?” she asks, and there’s an edge to her voice; she’s prepared for him to refuse her.
“Of course!”
She comes to sit on the ground beside him. He offers her half of his sandwich and she refuses.
“How’s Nola today?” she asks.
“Still here.” Arthur takes a bite of his sandwich, swallows. Again, he holds out the other half to Maddy. “You sure? It’s too much for me.”
She looks at it, then takes it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Silence, and Arthur thinks he can feel that she’s embarrassed about what she revealed when he invited her to his house, about how that lout dumped her. Arthur tried to tell her there’d be lots of other boys, but he got nowhere. Finally, they just got onto other subjects. She’d liked looking at the things in his house; she told him she liked old things, and Arthur was startled into realizing that they were old things, everything in his house was old. Only thing new was the food in his fridge, and even then, he’d probably do well to check the expiration dates on all the jars. Assuming he could see them. Which was doubtful. Mostly, when things smelled bad, he pitched them.
Maddy finishes her sandwich, and her mood seems lighter. When Arthur hands her a cookie, she takes it, then says around the first bite, “Good! What are these?”
“They’re called orange blossom butter cookies.”
“There’s lavender in here, too.” She points to a purplish fleck. “See?”
“Oh,” Arthur says. “I thought that was mold.”
Maddy looks up at him, taken aback. “And you ate them?”
“Oh, a little mold isn’t going to hurt you,” he says, and takes another bite.
“Where’d you buy these?” Maddy asks.
“My neighbor lady bakes all the time, and sometimes she gives me things. Lot of times, really.”
“Lucky!”
“I guess I am.”
She shifts to look up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun. What a pretty girl she is. If she’d just take that ring out of her nose.
“Do you have other people buried here?” she asks. “Other…you know, loved ones?”
“No,” Arthur says. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve seen you stopping at other graves.”
“Ah. Yes, I stop at certain graves because…Well, because I seem to hear those folks. Or feel them. What I mean is, when I stand there, things about them come to me.”
“You mean like a fortune-teller?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I’ve never been to a fortune-teller. But I guess it’s like that. I see things like how they looked and what they wore and how they lived. Sometimes I see what they loved.” He looks down at Maddy and smiles. The blood rises to his face. But Maddy seems to find nothing unusual in what he has said.
“Do you think it’s really true, these…things you get?” she asks.
“I guess it doesn’t matter, really.”
She nods. “Right. What are they going to do, sue you for misrepresentation?”
The girl does have a sense of humor. He wishes she would smile more.
“It’s just pleasant for me to imagine their lives,” he says. “They’re Nola’s neighbors, I want to know who they are.”
“God, you really loved her!” She’s digging in the earth, making a little hole and filling it up, making a hole and filling it up.
“I did. I do. Always and forever. Nola Corrine.”
She looks over at him. “I’m going to call you Truluv. We’ll spell it T-R-U-L-U-V. That’s your new name.”
“And I’m going to call you Sunshine.”
“Ha ha.”
They sit companionably and then she says, “I really like that you want to know who’s keeping Nola company. I guess you’ve only got me for company.” Then she rushes to add, “Not all the time. Just sometimes, I mean.”
Arthur feels an impulse to tell her he’d love to have her company anytime. He feels like she’s the smallest little plant, dying from lack of water. But then he realizes he must tread carefully in this regard. People who don’t feel cared for are not always comfortable being cared for.
A cedar waxwing offers its high-pitched trill, and Arthur points at a nearby tree. Maddy nods. “Cedar waxwing,” Arthur says, and Maddy says, “I know.”
He rolls up the wax paper from his lunch, stuffs it in the bag. He’s still hungry, but the satisfaction he felt in having Maddy’s company was worth the price of a cookie and half a sandwich. In the fridge at home he’s got half a pork chop.
He picks a blade of grass and puts it between his thumbs and makes a loud squeak.
Maddy sits up, surprised.
“How’d you do that?” she asks.
He picks another fat blade and shows her how to position it. “Now just blow,” he says, “not too hard and not too soft.”
She tries, but it doesn’t work. “I can’t do it,” she says, and drops the blade, crosses her arms on her bent knees, and stares straight ahead.
“I couldn’t do it right away, either,” Arthur says. “Takes practice.”
“Yeah.” Then, facing him again, she says, “I feel things from the graves, too. Not specific things. But I feel something.”
“What do you feel?”
“Mostly peace. Like…relief. Like, ‘Okay
, that’s all, put down your pencils, even if you’re not done.’ ”
“Put down your pencils?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah. Like what they say at the end of exams. Those exams for college.”
Oh. College. Of course. She’ll be off in the fall. He feels a little tinge of sorrow. “Where are you going to college?”
She snorts. “The college of I Don’t Give a Fuck About College.”
“You’re not going?”
“No. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine with me,” Arthur says. “Only I just want to say I don’t think everyone should go to college.”
She looks over at him, suspicious.
“Really? You really think that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, look at you. Captain Makesense.”
“And look at you. Little Miss Pottymouth.”
“Give me a break,” Maddy says. “Fuck is part of the lexicon now. It’s accepted.”
Arthur uses a stick to draw a line around them as far as he can reach, then points to it. “See this?”
“Yeah?”
“This is the land of you and me, where such language is not accepted.”
“Whoa!”
“Okay?” Arthur says.
Maddy sighs. “Yeah, fine, who gives a shit?”
He’s about to chastise her again but when she smiles at him, he just can’t. He smiles back and shakes his finger at her, and she laughs.
“Can I say goldurn?” she asks, and Arthur nods.
“Cotton-pickin’?”
“Say it myself,” he says. “Works just as well. Don’t forget about dagnabbit.”
She leans in closer to him. “If you say fuck one time, I’ll stop swearing. Around you.”
“Really?”
She nods.
“Okay.” He tries, he really does, but his throat closes. He’s never used that word and he’s not about to start now. “Can’t do it,” he tells her. “I didn’t even say that when I was in the Army.”
“Takes practice,” Maddy says. Then she adds, “That’s not even my worst one.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t care to know the others.”
“You’re kind of a cool dude, Truluv,” Maddy says.
And then they both sit silently until Maddy rises and says she has to go back to school. No joy in Mudville when she says that, that’s for sure. He watches her walk away and a big pinch comes to his heart.
“Maddy!” he calls after her.
She turns around.
“Come over anytime. You’d be welcome anytime. Day or night. Really.”
She stands there. Then, “Do I have to call first?”
“No. Come anytime. I’ll be glad to see you. Gordon, too.”
She puts her backpack down, takes out a pen and a notebook. “What’s your address again?”
He moves closer so he doesn’t have to yell it. “Three-oh-three Maple.”
“Okay,” she says. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but it does seem to Arthur that her step is a bit lighter.
—
Two weeks. Two glorious weeks and Lucille has seen Frank almost every single night. On their first date, they went back to their high school, out to the bleachers where Lucille used to sit to watch Frank play football. They didn’t talk much, just sat there, holding hands. Then Frank said, “I guess I’ve missed this place a lot,” and Lucille felt the glowing hope that he would move back.
They’ve gone out for dinner, fancy and plain. They’ve gone to movies. She took him to her church and he even took communion with her. He took her to a concert, some Sinatra imitator, and she wasn’t quite sure what to say. It was god-awful, of course, but Frank seemed to like it and so Lucille decided she liked it, too. Of course the guy wasn’t really like Sinatra! Who could really be like Frank Sinatra but Frank Sinatra? It was just fun! It was! All the way home in his car (and if you think you don’t like Cadillacs, well, you just ride in one), they sang Sinatra’s song about New York.
At a stoplight, Frank had turned to her to ask, “Do you like New York City, Lucille? If you like it, I’ll take you there.”
Frank had done very well for himself. If they went to New York, they’d probably stay in one of those swanky hotels that had high tea in a gorgeous, high-ceilinged room, some woman wearing a formal and playing a harp while people ate tiny little sandwiches that wouldn’t satisfy a pigeon, and drank tea with their pinkies sticking out.
Lucille told him the truth. “I went to New York one time with another teacher, she taught fourth grade, too. I didn’t think I’d like it and I told her so. I’m not one for big cities, that’s why I live here. We have quite enough going on.”
“Ah yes, the teeming metropolis of Mason, Missouri,” Frank said. “Population five thousand.”
“Never mind, Mr. Snoot,” Lucille said. “Anyway, as I was saying, my friend insisted I’d love New York. Well, we went and we walked all over and I hated it. And I said so. And she said, ‘Let me show you something,’ and she took me to the top of the Empire State Building. We got all the way up there on the observation deck and she said, ‘Now what do you think?’ And I said, ‘Marge, if I hated it walking around down there, why in the world would you think I would like it up here, where all I can see are all these buildings and buildings and buildings! No,’ I told her, ‘I like grass. I like more space between things. I like polite people who talk slower. I like red Jell-O with fruit cocktail in there, and mayonnaise on top!’ ”
Frank laughed. “Well! Did that ruin the friendship?”
Lucille’s face changed. “No. It didn’t. We had a great friendship, she was my best friend, we could say anything to each other. She died of cancer twenty-seven years ago. I miss her still. Do you know, sometimes I still go to call her? Something happens and I think, Wait till Marge hears this!”
Frank looked down; he seemed sad, too. Then he stroked Lucille’s cheek gently upward with the backs of his fingers and said, “Well. You see?”
She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but she nodded.
One night, after they’d both had old-fashioneds, Frank told Lucille that he had always regretted that he hadn’t married her. He’d taken her hand when he told her that, and for a moment she thought he was going to do his old move, that thrilling wrist kiss. But they were past that now, they got enough pleasure just being with each other. Oh, she takes his arm when they walk together, they share a little kiss good night, but no Frenching. No. Although maybe later. They might grow into some things. She’ll see. She does dress better, and that’s been fun. She went over to Chico’s and got some playful prints and some jackets that hid a multitude of sins and some jewelry that was cheap but complemented the outfits nicely. “Don’t you just feel younger?” the saleswoman asked, and Lucille had the oddest reaction. She wanted to say, Listen, sister, you’ll be right where I am before you know it. She doesn’t know why she had that impulse. And of course she didn’t say it, she said, “Why, yes, I kind of do feel younger. A few years, at least.”
“Seeeeee?” the woman said, and then tried to talk her into getting tank tops, but Lucille is not going there. As they say. She is not going there. All that stuff hanging out. No.
But here’s the most wonderful thing. Frank does not seem to care about any of that. He told her that what he had always loved about her was her honesty, her openness, her simplicity, even her daffiness, it made him feel like he was Desi to her Lucy. Though when he said that, Lucille bristled. Simplicity! And for heaven’s sake, daffiness! But then he explained that his wife had been so complicated, so high-maintenance, such a nag and constant complainer. Absolutely no fun. He said he was sorry to say it, it was never good to speak ill of the dead, and after all she’d been his wife for so many years. But nothing was ever right with Sue from the get-go. Nothing ever measured up, especially him. She’d accuse him of doing insensitive things and he’d have no idea what she was talking about and so she would make him sit down and she would e
xplain it to him. In excruciating detail. Why he was such a dick, pardon the language.
“Why didn’t you leave her?” Lucille asked.
He shrugged. “The same reason so many others stay in bad marriages. The children.”
“Did you have affairs?” she asked.
He was silent, and she said quickly, “I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”
“It is your business because I want you to really know me, Lucille. I want you to know all of me. And yes, there were affairs. One was with my secretary, for twelve years.”
“Twelve years!”
“Yup, she finally gave up hoping I’d leave my wife for her. Though I was clear from the start that I never would. She left and I found someone else. Odd to say it, but those affairs kept my marriage together. I couldn’t leave my children.”
Lucille started to feel bad, thinking, You could have had children with me, but then Frank said, rather shyly, “I’d really like for you to meet them, Lucille. I have a daughter and two sons, and I have four grandchildren. My grandsons are ten, fourteen, and seventeen, and my granddaughter just turned twelve. I haven’t told my children about you just yet. They were utterly devoted to their mother—still are, really. She treated them a lot better than she treated me, thank goodness! But when the time is right, I’ll tell them. The toughest one will be Sandy, the one who lives here. She thinks everyone is a gold digger. But she’ll come around.”
And Lucille said that she would love to meet them. For one thing, his daughter lived here but the boys and most of the grandchildren lived in San Diego. Perfect place to visit in the winter. And she was healthy (relatively), and Frank was healthy (relatively); they could go back and forth and really enjoy themselves.
“Do you play golf?” he’d asked her on their second date, dinner at some really good Italian restaurant (fifteen miles away!), and she’d said, “Well, sure, miniature,” and he’d laughed and said good, he’d play miniature golf with her, and he hoped she would tolerate him playing nine holes every week. Just a par three course. Real flat and easy. Nobody else out there, usually; you could get through pretty quickly. He hoped she wouldn’t have a problem with him playing golf once a week.
“Maybe I could try to play with you,” she said, and his eyes lit up like a little boy’s. “I’ll bet you’re a wonderful teacher.” She said this a bit flirtatiously, a bit double-entendre-ly. And then he really got happy. Men were ever men, weren’t they? Men were ever men. But his reaction made her feel kind of flowery and feminine.
The Story of Arthur Truluv Page 5