by Peggy Webb
What can I do for you?
“Plenty,” I say, and he roars with laughter. “Actually, it’s about a house on Meadowlark Lane, an old house that’s for sale.”
I know that house. The Clarkson place.”
“What do you think about it?
The house has good bones. Lots of character. All it needs is a loving touch.
“Are you saying a woman like me, a woman alone, could buy it and fix it up?”
Maggie, I hear lots of spirit in your voice. I’d say a woman like you can do anything!
I’m smiling when I hang up, still smiling when I go to bed.
o0o
“I can’t go this afternoon, Maggie.”
It’s Lillian on the phone, sounding as if she can barely breathe. I feel as if ghosts just walked on my grave.
“Oh, my God. Did we wear you out yesterday?”
“No. It’s not that, Maggie. Not you and Jean.” She doesn’t have to say the rest. It’s her heart, growing weaker every day. I try not to think about how fast time is passing and what that means for her, for all of us.
“I’ll take pictures, Lillian.”
“Good. I want to hear everything.
In spite of Lillian’s call, I look forward to seeing this house. Buoyed by possibility and Mr. Fixit’s high opinion and the beautiful Sunday afternoon, I pick up Jean and head to Meadowlark Lane. There are no agents for this house, just Bill’s client who trusts him with the key.
“Don’t get your hopes too high, Maggie,” Jean says.
“I won’t,” I tell her. But I can’t help myself.
We are on a gravel road that winds through woods that are primeval in their beauty, and I feel as if I’ve sprouted wings.
Occasionally a pasture intersects the long stretches of trees, and cows standing hip-deep in shallow ponds turn to gaze at us as we pass by. Beyond are white frame farm houses, modest and neat, surrounded by stands of stately oaks.
I’m already in love.
“This is a beautiful setting,” I say.
“I know. When Bill told us about this place, I knew you’d like it.”
We come upon the house suddenly, and the first thing I see is the front porch, a graceful sweep of white railing and simple white columns that span the entire front and wrap halfway around the sides. There is even an old wooden swing attached on one end, chains rusty, slats weathered, seat warped. I see none of the imperfections. Only the charm, only the potential.
The yard slopes gently toward the road, and is filled with old fashioned shrubs, shrubs Granny could identify in a heart-beat but whose names I have long forgotten.
“I can plant climbing roses,” I say as I barrel out of the car and race toward the porch.
“Maggie, watch out!” Jean yells “The railing is rotten.”
So it is, rotten and falling away in places, paint flaked and peeling. But the yard and trees are glorious. Giant pecans with trunks so gnarled you know immediately they’ve housed squirrels and sheltered birds and watched over children playing in tire swings hung from their massive branches.
A breeze catches the limbs and the leaves whisper the history of the house, hint at lovely secrets. A bluebird lights on a lower limb, its wings bright as neon in the sun.
“Jean, look.” I point to the bird, and she says, “I just got chills, Maggie.”
We are both thinking the same thing.
Once when we were in Granny’s garden, bare toes buried in the dirt, hoes in our hands, breaking the ground for her spring planting, a bluebird swooped out of nowhere and perched on the garden gate.
“The bluebird of happiness,” Granny said. “God’s blessing on my garden.”
The bird in the pecan tree turns his head slightly, as if he’s looking directly at us.
“It’s a sign,” Jean says.
“Yes. A good omen.”
I gingerly test the swing then set it in motion with my left foot. A breeze ruffles my hair, and the sun warms my back. Along the railing I see weeds that need pulling, shrubs that need trimming, earth that needs turning. This summer I’ll plant petunias and verbena and a late blooming rose or two, and in the fall I’ll plant bulbs, tulips and narcissus and hyacinths and jonquils that will bloom next spring.
“I’m home,” I say, and Jean smiles, knowing it’s true, knowing that the inside of tine house will be every bit as wonderful as the outside.
We turn the key in the lock, and we are not disappointed. Dust motes rise from the wooden floor and dance in patches of sunlight that stream through ceiling to floor windows. The ceiling has water spots, the paper is peeling off the walls and the floor needs refinishing, but the room is large and gracious, full of light and charm.
We walk through French doors into the kitchen, and I’m already planning what color paint to buy. There is an ancient stove in need of a good cleaning, and no other appliances.
“You should have taken the refrigerator when you left Dick. You paid for it.”
“I’ll get another one, and it will be all mine.” I walk around the kitchen, stepping off the space where my antique table will go. “What do you think, Jean?”
“So far it’s so perfect for you I’m almost scared to look at the rest of it.”
I feel the same way. At this price and in this setting, there must be a catch. Yet I know Bill, who is the soul of caution, would never recommend anything that he didn’t think was in my best interests. But the real deal sealer is Mr. Fixit. He’s earned my trust in a way that no man in the flesh has ever done.
The bedrooms are small, one is windowless, and I can’t keep my disappointment from showing.
“But look,” Jean says. She has stepped into a hallway adjoining the windowless bedroom, and there overlooking a private patio are French doors and a wide window. “You can knock out a wall,” she says.
“That’s brilliant, Jean.”
I’m already picturing myself in a gracious suite, walls painted a soft blush like the underside of rose petals, my hats hung on pegs along the walls, my bed beside the window. We walk through the house once more, making sure, then Jean looks at me, and I nod, yes, my face split in a big grin.
“I’m so happy for you.” She hugs me. “Bill will call his client and make the offer.”
The house is not mine yet, but small formalities don’t count. What counts is the rightness of the thing, the perfect timing. I knew from the moment I saw the house that it would be mine, not merely because of the porch and the pecan trees and the yard filled with old-fashioned shrubs, but because of the spirit. There’s a welcoming feel to the house, a sweet spirit that embraces you when you walk through the door.
“Take the risk and the angels come,” I say. Jean arches her eyebrows, and though she’s skeptical and unwilling to step into that territory herself, she fully supports me in my mystical adventures.
“If anybody knows that, it’s you, Maggie.”
On our way home, we stop at an antique store.
Jean always finds something to capture her imagination as well as her pocketbook. She’s not long making her discovery.
“Maggie, look.”
She holds up a plaster of Paris sculpture - two lovebirds, beaks touching, a flower-entwined heart arched above them. Hanging over a bedroom door it would say to all who enter only love spoken here.
“It’s perfect. If anybody has made love work, it’s you and Bill.”
“True, but it’s not for me; it’s for you. A housewarming gift.” She hands the lovebirds to me, and I’m too full to speak. “From now on, that’s the way it’s going to be with you, Maggie. I just know it.”
I hold Jean’s gift in my hand, trace the contours, feel the solid weight. When I get home I’m going to hang it over my bedroom door.
o0o
Thanks to my Mr. Fixit, I have exactly what I need to hang the lovebirds. I admire them from all angles then call Lillian to give her a blow by blow account of the house, my house, though it will be Monday before I know if Bill’s client
accepts my offer.
“Maggie, I’m so glad! I want to see it. Soon.”
There’s an edge in her voice that I haven’t heard before, a hanging-on-by-the-fingernails sort of fear. I know the horror of waiting day after day for something that doesn’t happen, but I don’t know how it feels for the waiting to mean life or death.
“Lillian.” I feel the need for a hushed voice and the kind of extreme diplomacy that makes you think of walking on eggs. “You don’t have to finish out the school year. They can get a good substitute. They’ve done it before.”
“If I quit now, the girls will ask questions. I’m not ready for that. I’ve got to keep going.”
“You will.”
“Yes. Because I have you and Jean.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lillian is at school Monday, though it breaks my heart to see how carefully she moves, how her breath saws through her lungs with every little exertion.
When she walks into the teacher’s lounge, Jean manhandles the only stuffed chair so Lillian can plop down just inside the door.
“I’m impressed, Jean,” Lillian drawls. “How’d you do that?”
“Pure meanness. Bill says if I get any more devilish, he’s going to buy me a little red hat with horns.”
“I don’t even want to know.” Lillian sinks into the chair then spends so long catching her breath I’m about to call 911. “Halbert’s back, in town,” she finally says, and my pimento sandwich gets stuck in the back of my throat.
“Maggie didn’t need to know that,” Jean tells her.
“I think she does. She’s bound to run into him sometime. Jackson is not that big.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “I can speak for myself.”
We have the teachers’ lounge to ourselves. It’s quiet in the hallway, but outside the window children are playing, their bright, high laughter floating upward like kites caught in the wind. I listen to this end-of-school exuberance. Six days left and counting.
“How long will he be here?” I hope she says only a few hours.
“He’s moved to Jackson. Quit the company he’s been with for fifteen years, then rented a U-Haul and drove up here with his furniture and his guitar.”
“Don’t you dare even think about seeing him.”
“Jean’s right. Maggie . . . you’re not thinking about seeing him again, are you?”
“Yes,” I tell them. Jean shakes her head and Lilian groans. “But it’s not what you’re thinking.”
Lillian perks up. “Revenge, I hope.”
“No,” I say. “Closure.”
“Good girl.” Jean attacks her ham and cheese with renewed vigor, but Lillian seems to be fading.
I race over and squat beside her chair. “Are you okay?’
“I need to see your house, Maggie. Today.”
“You’ve got it, girlfriend.”
Jean sums up the situation with one glance.
“We’ll all go.” The way she lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders, I know she’s preparing for anything, even the possibility that we’ll have to call 911 then wait beside Lillian for an ambulance.
o0o
I drive slowly so Lillian can take in the community that I will soon be calling mine. She cranes her head from one side to the other as if she’s trying to commit the place to memory, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. Is she thinking last chance or new beginnings?
When we come to the house I’m struck by its faded elegance, its gracious air. Everything about this house says welcome.
“Here we are!”
“Oh, Maggie! It suits you!” Lillian says. Jean and I help her from the car, and though she says, “I can walk by myself,” we don’t let her go.
Inside, Jean and Lillian stand in the middle of the living room, while I race around opening windows, getting a sense of what it will be like to live there alone. Across the street children are chasing a flop-eared cocker spaniel across their front yard, and in the pecan tree in my front yard two cardinals start singing. I close my eyes to feel the spirit of the house, and it’s like falling backward into a pair of comforting arms.
“Yes,” I say, and then I show Lillian every room, describe to her how each one will look when I’ve finished. I don’t leave out a single detail, from the color of paint right down to the color of throw pillows I’ll use. This awful fear that she won’t be here when the house is finished is stealing my breath, cracking my heart.
“She’s going to get Matt to do the restoration,” Jean says.
“I don’t know about that,” I say, but Lillian is applauding as if Super Matt is already waltzing through these rooms, playing a blues tune on his harmonica while he brandishes a paint brush.
Jean shoots me a triumphant I told you so look.
I can see that Lillian is tiring, so Jean and I ease her back to the front porch then sit beside her on the swing. We’re packed together like fresh market catch, but neither one of us wants to get far from Lillian.
I set the swing in motion.
“This is a real porch party, Maggie,” Jean says.
“My first. If I had lemons I’d make lemonade.”
“You’ve got to get a refrigerator first,” Jean says, but Lillian tells her, “Hush, Jean. Nothing but good thoughts today.” Her color is coming back.
“Do you feel like exploring the neighborhood, Lillian?” I ask, and she nods.
Jean and I help her back into the car. If I were alone, I’d walk, but Lillian can no longer get from the house to the car without bending over to catch her breath. I can’t let myself think about how rapidly her heart is failing and the possibility that one might come too late, or I’ll start crying in front of her.
I drive slowly through my new neighborhood, which has only six houses, all well kept, and then Meadowlark Road comes to a dead end. I like that. No thru traffic and no worries about letting children and animals romp in the yard.
I turn around and find a side road angling into Meadowlark. Huge oak trees make canopies that cast deep shade. The road is graveled, and I begin to think that I’ve made a mistake and am traveling on private property along what my daddy always called a field road.
“Turn around, Maggie,” Jean says. “This goes nowhere.”
“Wait!” Lillian points to a small white clapboard church with a simple steeple and a hand-lettered sign out front: Hope Methodist.
The name resonates through me and I lower all the windows then sit there breathing, simply breathing. I think about attending services at a place called Hope. There’ll be good country people sitting on hard wooden pews, their sunburned faces shining as if they’d been scrubbed down with Ajax, and a small organ up front with a woman in a flowered dress pumping out “Love Lifted Me.” The minister will be old and weathered, affectionately known as Brother Robert to his faithful flock. He’ll stand in the doorway every Sunday shaking hands and patting shoulders and saying, “God bless you, my child,” and his blessing will be true and strong enough to snatch you from the snares and brambles that reach out during the week to drag you under.
I glance toward the sky, half expecting to see stars shining down in benediction. But the sky is the color of a robin’s egg and the sun lights my way back home.
No, not home, I think as I deliver Jean and Lillian then enter my apartment. Home is where I’m heading. Soon.
o0o
I am surrounded by boxes again, but this time the move is a happy one. Jean is downstairs, loading her car with my cherished possessions, while Lillian sits in the passenger seat, taking it all in. Bill and Carl are already at my new house awaiting the moving van, and I’m saying goodbye once more. When I walk out and turn the key one last time I’ll be locking the door on my cocoon. I’ve curled up in this small safe place to lick my wounds, and now I’m emerging, spreading my wings to see if I can fly.
I go through the apartment, saying goodbye, then lean out the window to wave at Lillian and Jean.
“Rapunzel, let down your hair,” y
ells Lillian.
“I’ve already let it down, and I’m planning to party.”
Two men wearing suits and ties pass by on the street, look up and grin. Some crazy dame, they probably say to each other, and then they wave. I wave back. Today I’m in love with the world.
The moving van comes around the corner, and I go to the door to greet the movers. The driver comes forward.
“Are you Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes.”
Puzzled, he consults his work order, then double checks the number on the front of my door.
“You have the right place,” I say. “Come on in.”
“We moved a Mrs. Livingston here a couple years back. You sure look her.”
Ellie Livingston is the name of the character in my book, the one I’d used to sign this lease, knowing Dick would turn the town over looking for me.
“I’m not Mrs. Livingston anymore.”
“Got married, did you?”
“No. Just became myself.”
He gives me a funny look then sees my piano. “I sure remember that thing. Might as well start with the hard part, boys.”
On the drive out to my new home I think about what the mover said. I hope that’s what I’ve done with my life, started with the hard part.
I’ve brought a twelve-pack of Coca-Cola, and I ensconce Lillian on the porch swing with a cold drink. Last week she’d have protested about being coddled. This week she accepts the Coke and says, “I’ll boss from here.”
“You do that!” I lean over for a quick hug, then go inside to issue orders but I’m too late. Jean has already taken charge.
In short order, my furniture is in place, though rattling around a bit in the huge space. Carl and Bill hang a huge mirror on a spot where the wall paper is peeling.
“The house already looks better,” Jean says.
“It’ll look even better when I hang all my pictures.”
The men make a fast exit, saying they are going to pick up pizza.
“If you ever want to clear the room, Maggie, that’s the way to do it.”
“If I ever let another man in my life, he’ll be somebody I know I want to keep.”
“Bravo!” Jean says then stands with her hand on her hips while I take the first picture out of the box. “Wait, Lillian will want to see this.”