by Karen Ranney
Between the studio and the fence dividing our property was an enormous Southwestern Maple. I loved that tree, watched it every season, mourning for the loss of its glorious red and yellow leaves in the autumn and welcoming the new growth signaling spring. In the winter, I measured the ferocity of the winter winds by the arch of the denuded branches and watched as the summer rains washed each individual leaf.
I'd never told Evelyn about the joy I got from her tree. I halted, blinking back tears, missing her.
Taking a deep breath, I walked into the studio, hoping Paul wasn't there so I could say, later, I couldn't find him. But he was there, holding court about his art. I pushed open the door gently, and stood in the back of the group.
“I wanted to bring as many natural elements into my windows as I could. I want life itself to be encapsulated in the glass. Glass shouldn't be frozen in time, but flowing with strength, grace, power, and movement. Similar to the way light travels through it.”
He held both hands in front of him, pinching his fingers then splaying them wide in front of a piece of bronze glass. Inset into the glass at various intervals were pieces of what looked to be burled marble.
It was stunningly ugly. Even squinting couldn’t make what I saw better.
Someone asked a question about his technique, but I didn't recognize the speaker. I did note a dozen women in varying stages of admiration. Evidently, the funeral supper had given way to the Paul Norton Hour.
“I've taken elements from nature itself and incorporated these into my work. Semiprecious stones and amber, anything that gives me creative imagery.”
He pointed to his left where a massive metal frame, measuring four by eight feet, was sitting on a small platform. Beside it was a large industrial welding tank.
“I’ve envisioned a waterfall for my newest work. The blues of the heavens merge to become the water. The eye will be caught by the play of sun and mist.”
He suddenly looked away, blinking rapidly.
"This will be my gift to Evelyn," he said, his words choked. "How I will always remember her."
His throat worked, and several women went to him, touching him on the arm, the shoulder, the back of his hand. He nodded several times, as if they'd said something warm and reassuring.
Stupid words like: this, too, shall pass. Time heals all wounds. You'll get through this. Or my personal favorite: God never gives you more than you can handle.
I thought Paul's behavior was a little over the top.
A curious moment to remember he'd been interested in our Patio Productions, the King Lion District amateur theatricals.
You'd think a group of people whose average age was fifty-eight would have more sense than to put on a play like Little Women. But this was the same troupe that gave us Gone With the Wind with Peggy Barnstable, the mayor's wife – five feet two and two hundred pounds – playing Scarlett. The production was so embarrassingly awful that Little Women had been a Tony nominee in comparison.
As I opened the door, a woman at the front of the group made a comment and Paul smiled manfully. Another woman hugged him, no doubt impressed by his courage.
He thinks he’s gotten away with it, you know.
A goose ran over my grave.
5
On the advice of my orthopedist we bought a swim lane. It’s located in the back of the house, in a converted porch that now has a glass roof and large windows. I call it the sunroom for lack of a better name for it.
The swim lane was eight by fifteen feet with a powerful motor on one end. I swim against the current every morning in an effort to keep my leg moving, steel pins and all. It's something I do that's healthy and good for me, but I’m not always in the mood. Nor do I always approach the pool with unbridled enthusiasm. There were times, like this morning, when I grumbled and groused and whimpered all the way downstairs.
Early on Maude grasped that it was best not to encounter me first thing in the morning, so she always slipped into the sunroom before I get there and put a clean towel on the wicker stand, along with what I’ve come to think of her voodoo drink.
Supposedly, it’s filled with vitamins but I hate the taste of it and surreptitiously pour it outside so as not to hurt her feelings.
Sally settled into her spot beside the wall while I got into the swim lane. Some days I pretended I was crossing the English Channel. Sometimes, like today, I was being chased by sharks. It's amazing how even pretend terror can compel you to swim for your life. When I was done, I sat on the edge of the pool, grabbed my terrycloth robe, and wrapped myself in it. Sally moved to sit beside my chair. Even with a brisk breeze outside, the sunroom was warm and sultry place.
I looked toward Evelyn's house.
A week had passed and in that time I felt Evelyn's absence acutely. There was a huge hole in my life where she had been. But all my grief couldn’t change the situation. Nothing I did would make her live again.
At least I could honor her memory.
She loved Paul and I’d instantly suspected him. But I couldn't help remembering Paul standing in front of the women, acting urbane and effortlessly charming the day Evelyn was buried.
"I know he's gorgeous and I'm not,” said the ghost of Evelyn's voice.
She and I had been sitting in the gazebo when she said that. I remember thinking Paul was nothing special but that's why there’s vanilla and chocolate.
“Is it only because you think he’s hot?”
She grinned.
“No, Jenn, he’s the sweetest, kindest man. He makes me feel ... protected. As if I'm special."
When in doubt, I've found it's easier to shut up. Otherwise, I agonize over what I've stumbled into saying. I soak up my own embarrassment like a sponge and slosh around with it inside of me for days. But this was Evelyn and I was always honest with her.
“Why now?” I asked. She’d been alone for fifteen years, had an active social life, and had seemed content. “Why start living with someone now?”
"You go along thinking your life is fine," Evelyn said. "And something suddenly changes. Something, I don't know what, makes you look at things not full on, but from an angle. Like you stepped out of your body. Then you realize you aren't as happy as you thought you were. You're lonely. And alone."
You could be lonely even in the presence of another person, but I didn't say that.
“I never thought of myself as a physical woman,” she said. “But I'm more conscious than ever that things are beginning to sag. How can I possibly compete with the women Paul has known?”
Her vulnerability disturbed me. I didn't want Evelyn to hurt or to question herself. Love, however, was an emotion that stripped away self-confidence along with reason.
“If he loves you, he'll take you the way you are,” I’d said, wishing the words didn't sound so trite.
Her smile was self-deprecating. “I'm not exactly a prize, Jennifer. I know what I look like.”
“Character counts, Evelyn,” I said.
What about Paul's character? Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe Tom was right and I was judging Paul by my own emotions. Or perhaps my reaction to him had simply been colored by Mr. Fehr's words. If Evelyn had loved him, surely there was something about Paul to love. Where was my faith in Evelyn? She deserved my loyalty.
Perhaps I needed to see Paul in a new light.
I stood, grabbing the empty voodoo cup, and made my way into the kitchen, Sally trailing after me.
"Do we have anything I can take to Paul?”
Maude was making a pastry, something deliciously flaky and decadent, no doubt. I had no idea what the menu was most of the time. I'd accidentally discovered Maude was a much better cook than I could ever be, and had shamelessly exploited her talents ever since. I could care less about dust, as long as dinner was edible.
"Why would you want to do a thing like that? Seems to me there's plenty of other women ready and willing to feed him."
“Really?” I asked, frowning.
“Like that one, for i
nstance,” she said, pointing at Linda’s house with her chin.
I doubted she meant my elderly friend. “Dorothy?”
“If he was a bee, she'd be just one more of his flowers.”
“You’re kidding.”
My heart sank for Evelyn.
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “She's worn a path back and forth to that house."
“Do you think Evelyn knew?”
“She was in love,” Maude said, shrugging. “Women in love see what they want to see.”
“Are you absolutely sure about Dorothy?”
Again, that look. “I’m sure.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel. “Are you thinking sweet or savory?”
The change in subject was too abrupt for me.
“Just because he’s a fool doesn’t mean we should be uncharitable,” Maude said, as if she’d heard my confusion.
“Do we have any cookies?” I asked, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
Maude hid her damn cookies, as if I was a child and had to be rationed.
“What about a nice shepherd's pie? Something to fill a man up, and last for more than one meal.”
I nodded in agreement. “That sounds wonderful," I said, and left the kitchen.
I dressed in a canary yellow pants and a top with a large sunflower embroidered on the front. The sneakers I'd purchased at an art fair, and maybe they were a little bright, since they were dyed psychedelic green and had yellow stripes.
Soon, I was trotting through the alley with a Tupperware container, a definite no-no in the King Lion District. One never went visiting with disposables. One took an expensive container, be it heirloom or antique. Also, you were never to remark on its absence or the delinquency of its return.
I was definitely ignoring a neighborhood tenet, but I doubt if Paul would notice. I sincerely hoped he liked Maude's version of shepherd's pie, although I couldn't see how anyone could refuse it. The smell wafting from beneath the plastic handle was heavenly.
I entered Evelyn's back gate and took the flagstone path to the side of the house. The abrupt sound of a drill make me jump, startled. A young man was on top of the studio roof and, as I watched, he fastened an aluminum frame into place.
He noticed me and waved. Surprised, I waved back. A moment later, he descended the ladder.
He was dressed in a faded denim shirt and crisp blue jeans. A black baseball cap emblazoned with the name of Bowie Construction in white lettering sat on his blond hair.
An aquiline nose jutted a little too forcefully from high cheekbones and a square chin. It was a face that escaped being called mean by the grace of his mouth, full lips falling easily into a half smile. He looked as if he'd have a warm and wonderful sense of humor.
“I’m sorry,” I said when he approached me. “I didn't mean to interrupt your work."
"No ma'am. I came down for some screws."
"What are you doing?" I asked, looking up at the roof. "Installing a skylight?"
"Two of them. Mr. Norton wants more natural light."
Evelyn had died only a few days ago, and already Paul was making changes. Life must go on, I suppose, but alarm bells were ringing.
“I live next door,” I said.
“I know,” he said, surprising me. “I recognized you. You walk your dog every day.”
I nodded.
“I’m a sub at the Hamilton house,” he said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a card. "I'm a licensed electrician, too," he said. "If you ever need any work done, I'd appreciate a chance to give you a quote."
I took his card and put it in my pocket. I admired entrepreneurs, and when I said so, he smiled.
"Is Paul around?"
"I think he's in the house," he said.
Reluctantly, I turned away and continued on my errand of mending fences and subduing suspicions.
So far, it wasn't going well.
What else was Paul going to do to Evelyn's beloved house?
The kitchen door was equipped with a glass and aluminum storm door. It was closed but the steel door behind it was wide open. I knocked on the glass but received no response. I waited a minute or so, but no one came to the door.
“He said to go on in,” the young man called out. “Good thing, too. Lots of your neighbors have stopped by.”
I walked inside the kitchen, calling out Paul's name as I did so. Putting the container on the island, I stood there, unwilling to go farther into the house. Evelyn was gone and the house felt empty without her.
I heard a sound, pushed open the door to the butler’s pantry, and stood there.
Evelyn’s study door was closed. Was Paul in there? How could he bear to be in the place Evelyn had died?
The door was closed, and as I raised my fist to knock, I heard crying. Loud, heart wrenching sobs that carried easily through the door.
Had Paul seen me coming? Was he grieving? Or was this performance strictly for my benefit?
Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I turned around and went back to the kitchen. I found a piece of paper in Evelyn's kitchen desk and scribbled: from Maude. I added the reheating instructions, and taped it to the top of the container before sticking the casserole in the bottom of the refrigerator. Maude was right about Paul’s appeal to the women of the King Lion District, if the contents of the refrigerator were any indication. I recognized covered dishes from three of my neighbors.
Well, at least the bastard wouldn't starve.
6
"I can't get over the feeling I have about Paul," I told Tom.
We were eating dinner in the Winter Porch, an area we'd renovated a few years ago. The porch looked out over the side yard and a few of our trees, now reluctantly shedding their leaves.
"I think it's none of your business."
Was he advocating I not care about Evelyn's death? Surely not.
"Evelyn never mentioned a heart condition. She had alopecia, but does it lead to heart trouble?"
Tom didn't answer.
"Something odd is going on over there, Tom."
He glanced over at me. "Leave it alone, Jennifer."
I attacked a spear of asparagus rather than look at Tom. He loved asparagus. I tolerated it, but then, I'm not a fan of vegetables. In my soul, I've never progressed beyond eight years old, eating wise. I would be just as happy munching on chocolate chip cookies and ice cream all day.
"Evelyn was my friend," I said softly.
"And you worry something until it bleeds. You're like a damn terrier with a bone."
There it was.
After all this time, there it was.
I stared down at the asparagus, wondering why the hell we really had to eat it in one guise or another once a week. You couldn't hide the taste with white sauce or bury it beneath chicken like broccoli.
"You just can't leave things alone."
Something opened up in my chest, a cavernous space echoing the chugging of my heart. I couldn't breathe deeply, as if my lungs were pressed down by a heavy weight.
I put down my fork with deliberation. I placed my hands on my lap, fingers curled around the cotton napkin. Only then did I look over at Tom.
"Is that what you've thought all these months?"
His blue eyes were arctic cold.
"Isn't that what you did? Pushed her until she had no other choice? No options?"
"Barbara was a drug addict," I said, my voice only shaking a little. Practice makes perfect, and I'd practiced this damn speech in my mind often enough. "What would you have me do, Tom? Ignore her drug use like you did?"
His face stilled, such a perfect representation of stone he could almost be chiseled. Tom didn't like criticism, especially from me. Especially about our daughter.
Too bad.
"She stole from you and you lied about it. She lied to you and you gave her money. She would have sold your soul to the devil and you would have excused her somehow."
"She was sick," he said, his voice rising.
Thank God Maude had gon
e home. I didn't want any eavesdroppers to this conversation.
"She was an addict," I said. "Addicts don't get better until they get help."
"She would have gotten it, Jennifer. If you'd left her alone."
"I was trying to get her help," I said softly.
"And look what happened."
Silence crawled between us, the moments lengthening.
"I had to do something," I finally said.
"Well, you did and she's dead."
I stared at him, wishing I had something with which to defend myself. Words? Or a bullet proof vest?
"Do you blame me for her death, Tom?"
Instead of answering me, he stood and left the porch without another word.
Daddy, push me! Daddy will let me. Daddy, give me a piggy back ride. Daddy, make that face again! A car? Dad, you're the best! Thank you! Dad, she won't let me. Can you talk her into it? Dad, I need money. It's for school, Dad. I know, it's expensive. Thanks for the credit card, Dad.
Barbara's voice echoed through the house, carrying memory after memory with each word. She'd always adored her father, preferring Tom's lap for story time, choosing his hand to hold on outings.
I told myself I wasn't jealous and, for the most part, I wasn't. But it hurt to always be second choice. I'd once thought we'd have more in common when Barbara got older. We'd talk about hairstyles and fashion, even though I was notoriously uninterested. I'd give her advice about boys and life.
We didn't, of course. As the years passed, the distance between us grew wider.
But, in my way, I was as protective of her as Tom, witness my confrontations with Talbot.
Her drug use had spiraled out of control in a matter of months. At the time, I was ignorant, uneducated, and simply naive. I thought her mood swings were the growing pains of adolescence. First, she'd admitted to marijuana, and I'd grounded her to hell and back. A friend had offered her crack, which I learned about only after I found it in her bedroom.
I hadn't known how quickly someone could become addicted. I saw the effects right before my eyes, Barbara, drooping as she walked, almost as if her limbs were too heavy. But she was losing weight, becoming painfully thin.