Open House

by Elizabeth Berg

  “Quarters or dimes?” I ask, thinking, Professional!

  “Both,” the man says, and I pour a shiny pile of coins from my hand into his. The simple exchange fills me with pleasure. “Thank you,” he says, and then, “You new?”

  “Yes. Yes I am. I’ll be here all week.”

  “Okay,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” He leans in closer, clears his throat. “My name is Branch Willis, and I know everything about this place. I been coming here for years.”

  “I’m Sam.”

  “Uh-huh.” A moment, and then, “You are a woman, right?”

  “Right. It’s Samantha.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You look like a woman, don’t get me wrong! It’s just you never know. These days, especially. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  He starts to shuffle away, then turns back to say, “You mostly stay in there, in the office, like he said. But you can come out, too. Up to you. You’re the boss.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” I sit back down at the desk, smooth the dollar bill Branch gave me, put it in the drawer. The door opens and another customer comes in, a woman with a little girl.

  “Here’s Mary!” Branch yells over to me. “And her little girl, that’s Lisa. How y’all doing?”

  I stand, stick my head out the window, smile. The little girl must be around four years old, a solemn and beautiful face, two tight blond braids. She clutches a baby doll tightly to her chest, carries over her shoulder a tiny diaper bag.

  Minutes later, the door opens again, and an extremely tall and handsome young black man comes in wearing sunglasses, carrying a denim laundry bag and a blaring boom box. He looks around, selects a washer, then sets the boom box carefully down on the floor beside it. He turns the volume up louder.

  Lisa covers her ears and turns to her mother, who turns away. Branch is minding his own business.

  “Excuse me,” I shout. Then, louder, “Excuse me!”

  The man turns to look at me, raises his sunglasses. “What.” Even from this distance, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot.

  “Could you . . . just . . . turn that down? Please?”

  “Fuck you.” He dumps his laundry out. Black jockey shorts fall to the side of the tall heap, a floral print pillowcase. My God. Everyone does laundry.

  I sit back down, move my chair out of sight of the window. Make change and clean up. That was the job description. Not suicide. I stifle an impulse to take one more peek at the man’s dirty laundry, then pop a Hershey’s Kiss in my mouth and suck nervously. I pull the phone closer to me. 911, that’s the number. Isn’t it? Is it? Of course that’s it. 411 is information; 911 is emergency. “Yes, I wonder if you could help me,” I imagine saying. “I’m in a Laundromat and one of my customers is murdering everybody.”

  But then when I chance another look out the window, I see the man sitting in a chair next to Lisa, helping her change her baby doll’s diaper. “Say what?” he says to her. And then, smiling brilliantly, “Yeah, she’s a good baby.”

  I ARRIVE HOME a full forty-five minutes before Travis is due. The phone rings as soon as I hang my coat up. “I’m returning your call?” a young woman’s soft voice says. “About the room? I’m the one who put the sign up?”

  “Oh!” The Japanese girl. The one who will so beautifully peel oranges.

  “Yes,” I say. “Thanks for calling back. I wonder if we could get together. To . . . you know, talk about this.”

  “When?”

  “Well, I guess . . . as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not doing anything now. If that’s all right. I could meet you now. Where do you live?”

  I tell her the address and the girl says, “That’s close. I can be there in five minutes.”

  I go into the kitchen to set out two mugs. Herbal tea, we’ll have. And then, spying the bowl full of fruit I keep on the table, I push it closer to the mugs. Just in case.

  When the doorbell rings, I open it to find a girl as Asian-looking as Gidget with a buzz cut.

  “GUESS WHAT?” I tell Travis. “I found us a new roommate. She’ll move in December first.”

  “Oh, man,” he says wearily.

  “She’s very nice. You’ll like her.”

  “Well, who is it?”

  “She’s a student, honey. She can speak Japanese! Her name is . . . well, she changed it. It used to be Elaine. But now it’s Lavender Blue.”

  Travis’s eyes widen. “Lavender Blue?”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t know where you get your ideas, Mom.”

  “I called her references, Travis. She’s very quiet. Keeps to herself—she’ll be no trouble. She used to live on a farm in Indiana and now she’s a student at Boston University.”

  “She’s going to live in the basement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t she care?”

  “Why? It’s nice in the basement. It’s not like a basement basement. There’s carpeting. She has her own bathroom. And there’s room for everything she needs.”

  “She must be weird to want to live in the basement.”

  “She’s a student, honey. You don’t mind living in those kinds of places when you’re a student.”

  “Huh. I’m not going to when I’m a student.”

  “Well, maybe not. But she is. And I hope you’ll give her a chance. Look how much you like Lydia.”

  “Fine, but her name isn’t Lavender Blue.”

  “I’m sure you can just call her . . . Lavender.”

  He shakes his head and sighs, but then, with a look of pleasant expectation, heads for the refrigerator.

  The phone rings and I answer it, watching Travis pull the lid off a plastic container. Cold spaghetti. His favorite.

  “So! How you like?” the voice asks.

  “Mr. Lee!” And then, since I have been warned by the employment agency not to have customers call me directly, “How did you get my number?”

  “Phone book! Only three ‘Morrow’! You number three! How you like job?”

  “Well, it was . . . fine. It was just fine.”

  “You like, I give you full-time. Just between you, me.”

  “Oh, well, thank you. But I think I’ll just do the week. I can’t really commit, you know. To full-time.”

  “Oh,” he says, disappointed. And then, “Okay! But you come whole week, then! Every day!”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Who was that?” Travis asks, when I hang up.

  “Mr. Lee. The boss from where I worked today. He wanted to hire me full-time.”

  “Wow,” Travis says, with an honest admiration that makes me want to weep. “The boss called you the first day?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It is.”

  16

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON ON THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING, I pull up in front of David’s building. I had a little trouble finding it, despite David’s clear directions. In the end, it was Travis who told me where to make the last turn. The tree-lined street is short and narrow, rather artistic-looking, I think jealously. There are stately black lamps, old gas types that have been converted to electric, and now, as I look at them, light up as though showing off. I cut the engine, turn to Travis. “You ready?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a very nice time.”

  He shrugs.

  We open our car doors simultaneously, and I follow Travis up the walk, watch as he rings the doorbell. I wonder when this will be normal, this sharing of a boy, these deliveries of him back and forth as though he is a package to be signed for. I reach out to smooth his hair back, and he lets me. He is feeling bad too, then, despite his attempts at indifference. “You don’t have to stay,” I say suddenly. “We can just visit, and then I can bring you home.”

  “No, it’s okay. I want to see Dad.” The buzzer sounds, and he p
ulls the heavy door open.

  It’s an interesting building: old, but extremely well maintained. A lot of mellow oak in the entryway; pretty leaded glass windows, mosaic tile, a nice wooden elevator. We ride to David’s floor without speaking. Travis’s foot is tapping rapidly; my heart feels as though it is going at about the same rate.

  When David opens the door, I nod rapidly, as though he has just said something I couldn’t agree with more. “Here he is,” I say, but Travis is gone, well into the apartment that he already knows.

  “Come in.” David clears his throat, stands aside. He is wearing his dark blue V-neck sweater, my favorite, and a crisp cologne, also my favorite. For a moment I wonder if this is for me, then remember that of course it’s not.

  I drop Travis’s duffel bag at my feet. “He’s all set for four days,” I say, and then hear a mournful reverberation in my brain. Four days! Four days! What will I do by myself? Lydia and Thomas are gone, off visiting Thomas’s niece for a week. King will surely spend Thanksgiving with his parents. I will be completely alone for the first time since . . . And then I remember: Rita will be here Saturday. That’s right, I’ll only have two days alone and then Rita will come.

  “Come see my room,” Travis yells from somewhere down the hall, and I turn to David, asking permission, I suppose.

  He nods, gestures for me to go ahead.

  I pass through the living room, look quickly around. Goodlooking furniture, a white (!) sofa, some new artwork on the walls. I always wanted a white sofa and he always said no. Why does he have one now? What is the change that allowed for it? It’s a nice one, too, plump and inviting. Needs a throw, though. Or some pillows, some color of some kind. Against one wall is a stereo system that looks to me like Darth Vader, and over the windows are tiny blinds, which I have always hated. There. I feel better.

  Travis’s room is small, but quite nice, really. There are bunk beds covered with bright red spreads. In the corner is a yellow beanbag chair, a black lamp beside it. A number of airplanes hang suspended in the air. Dental floss, I see, when I get closer. Oh. Clever. A small television and a portable computer sit on the desk in the corner, and a telephone, too, the transparent variety that Travis always used to ask for. Yes, it’s a very nice room. The curtains are better than those he has at home, the carpet, too. All right, and the furniture, too. But Travis’s favorite teddy bear is at my house.

  Travis jumps up when I come into his room. “See?” he says, pointing. “I have a bunk bed here.”

  “That’s great.” Am I getting a cold? I feel like I’m getting a cold.

  “Want to sit on it?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Top or bottom?”

  “I don’t know. What do you recommend?”

  “Top, definitely, top. Sit up there.”

  I climb the ladder, crawl out onto the bed, sit at the edge. I see David from the corner of my eye, standing just outside the room. Why does he do that? Why doesn’t he come in here? Must he so continually tell me he’s no longer a part of us?

  I look down at Travis, at his excited face. “It’s so high,” I tell him.

  “Right!”

  “Is this the standard height?” I ask David.

  “Don’t worry. He won’t fall out.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that,” I say, though the truth is I was envisioning Travis lying still on the carpet below, his neck at a terrible odd angle.

  “Come have some coffee with me,” David says, and Travis and I both hear the real message.

  “I’ll just . . . be in here,” Travis says, turning on his television.

  In the kitchen, David pulls a chair out for me, then sits down himself. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “No,” I say. “Thanks.” I cross my legs, widen my eyes, force a smile. “So!”

  He smiles back, a little embarrassed, and I want to touch his wrist, to reassure him. I still feel something for him. I still want to take care of him; it is a reflex.

  We sit quietly for a moment. A car starts outside, drives away.

  “I’m fine,” I say, finally, “if that’s what you want to know. I’m doing just fine. Really.”

  He nods. “Good. And you’re sure you have enough money?”

  “Yes, David. We worked it all out, remember?”

  “Well, Travis said you were going to get another roommate.”

  “That’s right. Lydia is moving out.”

  “Ah. Well. That didn’t last long.”

  “It wasn’t because she didn’t like living there,” I say, too quickly.

  “I know,” he says, also too quickly.

  Silence again. The phone rings, and David makes no move to answer it. And I cannot answer it, and this realization picks up my insides and drops them back down. Divorce is a series of internal earthquakes, that’s what it is, one after the other.

  “You know, David, this is so . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Well. The main thing is, do you think Travis is all right?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “I guess. Although . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing. I mean, I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you anymore, David. Do we talk about all the little things? Or just . . . you know, major things.”

  “What do you mean by ‘major things’? Did something happen?”

  “No. Not really.” I had thought to tell him about Travis and his friend calling that little girl. But why?

  The phone rings again.

  “Your phone,” I say.

  “Yes, I hear it. They’ll leave a message.”

  They’ll. Why doesn’t he just say “she”?

  I shift in my chair. Something hurts in my back. I’m getting pneumonia, maybe that’s it.

  “Travis said you had a date,” David says, looking past me, out the window.

  “Yes. And Travis said you have a girlfriend.”

  Now he looks at me, contrite. “Yes. I’ve wanted to tell you. But I didn’t know what to say, really.”

  And my skin feels warm to me. My hands, holding each other, they feel warm. I must be getting a fever. One hundred and one, one hundred and two. Three. “You know, I don’t feel too well, David. I think I’d better be getting home.”

  “You’re sick?”

  What phony concern. I nearly laugh out loud. I want to tell him not to bother. I want to slap his face. I want him to embrace me and beg forgiveness and come home with me and stop this! Doesn’t he understand that if he doesn’t stop this it will be too late?

  Oh, but it is too late. It is too late.

  I stand up. “I don’t know if I’m sick. But what if I was? You have Travis, so I wouldn’t have to worry about him. We’re all set. I’ll take care of myself. I’m fine. I really am.” I zip up my jacket, manage a smile, though all I can see is the girlfriend’s silk robe, hanging on the back of David’s bathroom door. I’m sure it’s there. I’m sure it’s silk. I’m sure it smells like perfume. And like David.

  “Well. You have a nice apartment, here.”

  “It’s . . . you know. For now. It is nice. Thank you.”

  I go into Travis’s room to say good-bye. He is lying on the top bunk, listening to his Walkman. “What’s wrong?” he asks, when he sees me. He takes off his headphones.

  “Nothing! I just wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Were you crying?”

  “No! I’m just tired, you know? I’m going to go home and take a long soak in the tub and then read a big fat book and eat a big fat candy bar. I’m actually pretty excited.”

  “What kind of candy bar?”

  “I thought I’d stop at CVS and scope it out.”

  “Yeah. They have a good selection.”

  “I think I’ll get the killer-size Snickers.”

  “Boring.”

  “Well.” I kiss his forehead. “I like them. And if I were eating one right now, you would want a bite.”

  “I know. But they’re still bo
ring.”

  “I’ll see you. Eat a lot of turkey. Put gravy all over everything, even the cranberry sauce.”

  “I will. Mom? Are you making pumpkin pie?”

  “Well, of course I’m making pumpkin pie. I’ll save some for you.”

  “Okay. Shut my door on your way out?”

  I shut his door, head slowly down the hallway. Travis has never had a Thanksgiving without me. But he seems all right. He does. He seems all right. I don’t know whether to be relieved or depressed.

  David accompanies me to the front door. “Take care of yourself,” he says.

  “I will.” No one else to do it. I start to open the door, then turn back suddenly. “You know what, David? I still don’t know what you wanted. I just don’t know what you wanted.”

  “I . . . We’re just different,” he says softly.

  I swallow hugely.

  “Look, I want you to know that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Sam. But the way we lived together, it wasn’t what I wanted. Sometimes I feel like there’s this fire in my belly that I need to feed all the time. And it wasn’t being fed.”

  Fire in his belly? Fire in his belly? That needs to be fed? Oh, I can’t wait to tell Rita that he actually said such a thing. This is great. A white couch, and a sudden transformation into Robert Bly. This must be his girlfriend’s influence. Probably they’re taking a New Age communication class together, holding hands every night and checking in with each other before they fly off to the land of dreams, which they record in their journals and share with each other over breakfast.

  As though sensing my thoughts, David shifts his shoulders, his old, familiar sign of discomfort. “That sounded stupid, I know. But I don’t know how else to say it. What I mean is I feel like I was always . . . yearning, whereas you were so happy with everything the way it was. And it started making me crazy. I don’t accuse you, Sam. I don’t fault you. We just never really connected. I mean, you don’t think we did, do you?”

  “No!”

  He smiles. “Well. So.”

  “Tell Travis to call anytime he wants to. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Same,” he says, and closes the door softly after me.