She rose instantly. Commingling emotions—comfort giving way to growing uneasiness—did not stop her from marveling that her head seemed to be floating above her shoulders like an overinflated balloon. She could marvel at this surreal feeling, or she could do something. She glanced at the door and, before leaving, managed to say, “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about.” It was lame, she was sure, but there was an insinuation there she hoped had registered. But no, that was too vague. A man who feels he has the right to touch a grieving woman’s knee does not see his error or apologize when she rises abruptly to leave. He probably thinks he’ll follow up with a phone call and an invitation to more “counseling.” In the end, though, all she did was thank him, in a chilly tone (she thought), turn on her heels, and leave his office before he had a chance to say much of anything except “you’re welcome.”
She did not tremble or feel any of the other now-familiar symptoms leading to vasovagal. But she was having a physical reaction. Was Rabbi Don hitting on me? Whatever it was, the leaning in and the hand on her knee were not acceptable. Maybe she was overreacting, but nevertheless, she was angry that she hadn’t said more.
“You have to call him and tell him it was inappropriate; otherwise you’re left with your anger,” said Bev, whom Tilda had called as soon as she got home. “Maybe he’s just a touchy-feely guy, but you need to assert yourself.”
“It was so strange. I mean, nothing he said was profound, but I was beginning to actually relax and to see some value, and then the hand on the knee, and the cologne. I didn’t think men our age wore cologne anymore. It seemed oddly out of place to me.”
“Call him.”
And so she did, but not until she rehearsed what she would say, and not until her palms stopped feeling clammy every time she thought about actually tapping in his number on her phone. The call, when she made it, went as she had planned. She expressed her anger and her bewilderment. And Rabbi Don said all the right things: “I guess I can be too familiar, but I didn’t mean to suggest anything inappropriate, I promise you. I honestly was trying to comfort you, and I thought you were beginning to come around.”
“Well, I guess I was,” allowed Tilda. She sensed that the call was coming to an end, and yet she still was not satisfied. What was missing? His words, she determined, were designed to make him look like the good guy. He was just friendly and misunderstood. But that wasn’t the way Tilda saw it.
“Apologize,” she said calmly.
“What?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, but I . . .”
“I’m waiting.”
“I’m sorry?” he said. At first Tilda thought he was asking her if he had said it right, but then she realized he hadn’t understood her—or couldn’t believe what she was asking.
“Apologize. I asked you to please apologize. I’ll feel better if you do that.”
“I see,” he said. “But you know I didn’t mean anything by it?”
Was he actually not going to do it? There was another, longer pause. Tilda held her ground, not replying.
He took a deep breath and said, finally, “I’m sorry, Tilda. I apologize.”
“Thank you,” said Tilda. And she gently hit the off button.
“It’s better to clear the air than to cloud it with anger,” Bev had said, when Tilda recounted the events of the trying circumstances to her. “I know, fortune-cookie sounding, but still, if you don’t, you’re the victim, even if it’s of your own misconceptions. Besides, men have to know where the boundaries are. Rabbis, too. They shouldn’t touch. Or wear cologne, apparently.”
Exactly, thought Tilda, thinking back on her conversation with her friend.
Tilda chose not to mention the incident to Laura, though, telling her instead the part about having attained a new level of what it meant to be human. “I’m not sure why, but that made some sense to me,” she said.
Two days after the rabbi encounter, George called. He belonged to a group of retired librarians who were taking a holiday trip to Cuba. The timing was perfect, he said. They would be celebrating President Obama’s recent new policy on the island by going to Havana. They would leave on a flight to Miami the day after Christmas and be back in Connecticut before New Year’s Eve.
“Sounds exciting—and historic,” said Tilda. She’d seen George several times for tea, coffee, and once for dinner. She enjoyed his company, and that was that, as far as she was concerned, so she was shocked when he made a proposal: “So I was wondering if you would like to go. I think it will be interesting and get us out of Dodge for a chunk of the dreaded holidays. I still have a hard time with them, too, as you know.”
“No,” she said, barely letting him finish his sentence. “I would not like to go. I hardly know you, George.” Even to her, this sounded harsh. But she had said it. Too late to take it back.
George seemed to be stumped, but only for a second, and then he laughed. “Tilda, I hardly know most of the people on the trip. That’s why I’m going to have my own room. Is that what’s bothering you?”
Now Tilda was embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t think I’d have any fun. But I’m sure it will be great. And I have always wanted to go to Cuba. Just not now, I guess. Okay, well, thank you.”
“Wait, Tilda. You’re not going to hang up on me, are you?”
Tilda thought about this and realized she was about to do just that. The whole concept of going away with George was making her exceedingly uncomfortable. She wasn’t usually one to follow the flight option in the fight-or-flight reaction. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but why did she suddenly have to fight men off, two in one week?
“First the rabbi, now George. You’re hot,” said Bev on hearing the news during lunch the next day at the diner on Waterton. “Honestly, I think it would be a good idea. If a woman had asked, would you have had the same reaction? You say you think of him as a friend. He obviously wasn’t suggesting anything too intimate. Maybe you should reconsider.”
“I don’t know. It’s probably too late. There must be paperwork. You don’t just go to Cuba.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
But the subject was closed as far as Tilda was concerned. And yet in the back of her mind she considered that she could change her mind, if there were still spaces available. Her passport was up to date. No, the subject was closed. And yet if that were true, why did she choose then to phone Laura? Of course she spoke to Laura most days, but today she started the conversation with a pertinent question. “Guess who asked me to go away with him?”
This was a loaded question, to be sure, and it got Laura’s attention.
“I can’t imagine,” she replied. “The only person you see is George, and you’ve said repeatedly he’s just a friend.”
“Well, yes. He is, and this would be just as friends, nothing romantic, for heaven’s sake.”
Tilda relayed the details and was surprised when Laura said, “Well, why not?”
“You mean, you think I should go?”
“Mom, he’s a nice guy, you enjoy his company, and it’s Cuba. It’s an opportunity to see the place before it becomes just another tourist trap. I’d go in a heartbeat—if a friend asked me.”
“Well, of course you’re right, about seeing it now and all, but . . . no. I’m not going.”
Laura sighed. “It’s your decision, but I wish you’d at least consider it. You must be thinking about it, or you wouldn’t have told me. Maybe you really want to go, but you’re afraid. Are you afraid of letting yourself have some fun?”
Tilda wouldn’t hear of it. “Don’t be silly; I’m not afraid. And I told you about it because I thought it was amusing. But thanks, honey. And, yes, okay, I’ll think about it.”
Tilda did think about it, but she wasn’t about to change her mind.
In the intervening days, Tilda had several more eventful encounters, none as unsettlin
g as with the rabbi, but each with its own emotional weight.
One morning when Tilda braved the cold to retrieve the newspaper, she saw Darren approaching. She wrapped her coat around her and said hello. He wanted to talk but saw that she was cold and asked if she wanted to go inside.
“Come, Darren, come inside with me,” she said.
He sat in the living room while Tilda put on some coffee. She joined him with a mug for each of them and with a banana bran muffin for him. “Once Harold and I thought of starting a coffee business and calling it Mug ’n’ Muffin. Sounds pretty silly, but that was long before Dunkin’ Donuts became so popular. So now I think it was quite a good name. Could’ve done well,” she said, handing him the coffee and muffin.
But Darren only faintly smiled back.
She sat down across from him.
“Did you want to talk to me about something, Darren?”
“I’ve heard from Amanda.”
Tilda was certain of what was coming, the moment she had dreaded: Darren now knew that she, Tilda, had betrayed him and Lizzie by not betraying Amanda’s confidence. But he moved along to tell her things that had nothing to do with her. Instead, though, he said Amanda wanted to come home for Christmas. Tilda was elated with the news. She put her coffee down and smiled broadly, but Darren put up his hand to stop her, as if to forestall any momentary excitement.
“I’m sorry. I’m not explaining this right. What I meant is she wants to come home—for the day—to see Lizzie. She hasn’t changed her mind about the rest. The truth is that I don’t even want to see her.”
He looked drawn, all the good humor drained from his face. It pained her to see him like this.
“How are you and Lizzie doing? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“We went to see my sister in Rhode Island to get away for a few days. I thought it would do Lizzie some good to see her cousins. But honestly, she’s better at this than I am, patient and understanding. I really don’t understand how she does it.”
“She is pretty remarkable,” said Tilda. “I know I may be butting in, so just tell me to back off if you want to, but for Lizzie’s sake—and probably for yours, too—maybe you should just enact a truce for the day, like the World War I soldiers, you know, who enjoyed Christmas together before getting back to fighting. At least you two won’t go back to killing each other again when it’s over. You wouldn’t have to get into any of it, no arguments, just being together for the day.”
Darren managed a little nod.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Darren. If somehow this is a prelude to her wanting to reconcile, you don’t have to agree. You’re not losing any control by letting her come for Christmas, for Lizzie.”
“I don’t know, maybe. I’ll think about it.”
He took the requisite few bites of his muffin and stood up to leave. Tilda walked him to the door. She wanted to give him a hug, but she wasn’t sure how he would react. Instead, they just nodded and said good-bye. When Tilda closed the door, she thought she had dispensed some pretty good advice—without touching or hugging.
Later in the week she had a surprise visit from Tilly, whose mother had dropped her off unannounced.
“Where’s your mother?” asked Tilda, craning her neck to look out the door as Tilly ducked under her arm to enter.
“She’ll be back in an hour. She has some shopping to do, so I asked her to drop me off. It’s okay, isn’t it, Grandma?” Tilly ducked again when she saw her grandmother getting ready to fold her arms around her. “Okay, don’t get carried away. It’s just a little visit.” She took her familiar seat on the sofa with Tilda sitting next to her. Tilda smiled at Tilly, for no reason, aside from one simple fact: Tilly was there.
“Okay, okay, I won’t subject you to my utter joy at seeing you. And of course it’s okay with me that you’re here, if you haven’t guessed that already. What’s up, kiddo?”
“Nothing. Can’t a kid see her grandmother without an ulterior motive?”
“Ulterior motive? What do you know about ulterior motives?” Tilda loved this banter with Tilly. It made her feel normal, not among the elite group of the grief-stricken. She reveled in how Tilly’s character was developing, revealing her to be caring, bright, and witty, with a little edge and a pleasant strain of sarcasm, like her grandfather. But then she ached thinking of all Harold was missing, all he would miss, and all she would experience without him—both gratifying and troubling, no doubt. It would do her no good to romanticize too much.
“I watch a lot of CSI reruns. There are always hidden motives to be figured out.”
“You seem in a good mood,” said Tilda, wondering if this would be a good time to push for a deeper conversation.
“I’m good, really,” said Tilly, nodding enthusiastically, which Tilda took to be a cover-up, not of the CSI variety, but rather her way of putting an end to further grandmotherly probing. Tilly looked at the fireplace and said, “Where are the lights and the stockings? And the decorations?” Tilda knew she was changing the subject, but she went with it.
“That’s right, you haven’t been here all month. Well, honey, I just didn’t feel like it this year.”
“Oh,” said Tilly. “Yeah, I guess I understand, but Mom says you’re not doing anything or going anywhere for Christmas. Won’t you even come over to our house?”
Tilda didn’t want to disappoint her granddaughter but decided to simply tell her the truth. “Sometimes it’s better for me to be alone. Even when I can be with the people I love most in the world, like you and your mom and dad. Everybody’s different, honey. This is just who I am.”
“Mom says you had a chance to go to Cuba. I would love to go to Cuba. They have all those old cars there. I think that would be great—to see that. I know there’s other neat stuff, too, like Cuban food and music. I also like the old buildings I’ve seen pictures of, kind of creepy but neat-looking, too. And it’s only ninety miles away from Miami, where you grew up, Grandma. Don’t you want to go?”
“Were you sent here to entice me to go to Cuba?”
“Grandma, I don’t believe this is who you are, wanting to be lonely. I know you miss Grandpa. I do too, so much, but he would want us to be happy. You know that. You don’t have to be sad all the time. Don’t we have to follow our bliss?”
Tilda wasn’t sure a trip to Cuba with George would constitute following her bliss, and wasn’t that what Lizzie said was Amanda’s mantra? Tilly was not exactly the “Follow your bliss” type, but Tilda understood what she was getting at.
“What do you have to lose, Grandma?”
“So you do have an ulterior motive. You little stinker.” Tilly leaned in toward her grandmother, allowing herself to be hugged.
After Tilly left, Tilda remembered how her father used to gather the family into their 1953 Chevrolet and drive from Miami across the seven-mile bridge to Key West, where they would walk the streets and see the signs advertising short flights and cruises to Havana. “It’s only ninety miles away,” he would say. “Someday we’ll go.” But of course they never did. When she was a teenager, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, she wondered if she would even live to get married and have kids. Her life seemed to be teetering on the edge of nuclear annihilation. And now here she was, alone, wondering why her granddaughter was trying to convince her to go to Cuba with a retired librarian. What a world.
That evening, she googled the librarians’ tour, paying special attention to the itinerary and the documents she would need.
It’s too late, anyway, she said to herself as she closed the lid. She heated some leftovers for dinner and turned on the news. There was a segment on all the old American cars still running in Cuba. Since spare parts are very hard to come by, she learned, a trunk lock might be opened with a screwdriver, and a leak in a radiator might be stopped with a banana peel expertly placed. Still, the old cars gleamed like new.
First Tilly’s unexpected visit and now this. Tilda didn’t believe in signs, but ma
ybe the fates were conspiring.
She picked up the phone and called George.
Chapter Eight
“YOU WANT TO TAKE ME TO DINNER IN HAVANA, CUBA?”
As it turned out, there was one space available in the Librarians Tour of Havana, Cuba, when Tilda called to tell George that she’d changed her mind. Fortunately, Jaime, the tour organizer, was able to expedite the many documents and agreements needing to be signed, not the least of which were the application and affidavit for the charter flight from Miami to Havana.
“It is possible to scan the documents, yes,” Jaime assured George when he’d called to add Tilda to the group. “Yes, even the passport, it is possible. And she must make payment today if she is to be included.”
Tilda scrambled to get everything completed, and George came over to help with the scanning. Finally, it was done. “It was most unusual, to break the red tape in this way,” Jaime told George, “but we have success. She will come with us.”
When Tilda relayed the news over the phone to Laura that she had been cleared to join the tour, Laura was brought to tears—of joy. And Tilda could hear Tilly screaming, “Yes!” in the background. Her next call to Bev was similarly joyful. “You are going to have a great time, and I think this will be the beginning, not only of the new year, but of a new you. Life goes on, my friend.”
But Tilda stuck to her decision to be alone on Christmas. At least now she could say she had to pack. In truth, though, the packing was done. And while she also stuck to her resolve not to decorate the house for the season, she did haul out the Christmas box and extract one string of lights to hang over the fireplace. She poured herself a glass of wine as soon as it grew dark and plugged the end of the string into the socket. She sat on the sofa watching the lights flicker, noting the colors—red, green, gold, and white—watching the way she and Harold had always done.
Her family may have allowed her to miss Christmas, but they would not miss the morning of her departure. She was closing her suitcase for the last time when the doorbell rang and there on the doorstep were Laura and Tilly and Mark with coffee and doughnuts. “We thought you might need a little last-minute help.”
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