I wipe my face with the back of my hands. I get up from my knees. It is very difficult. My leg is still weak. I move to all fours and then stumble and lurch to a full stand. Then I say, gruffly, “I think I need to go somewhere by myself, okay?”
I move past them, through the front door, avoiding their arms, ignoring their calls. Then I am in Clara’s car, and I am driving across the city. I know where to go. The car seems to be driving itself.
I end up at her house. It’s the closest I can get to her today. There is an addition to her For Sale sign. The word SOLD.
I recognize him from my hazy memories of someone helping me while I was thrashing in the street only a few months ago. Mr. Carter. He must have seen me sitting in my old chair on the front porch. I am not wearing my walking boot; I came unencumbered. He waves, smiling. If he notices I have been crying, he doesn’t mention it. He says, “How are you there, Chris? Remember me? Glad to see your leg is okay. Are you here about the desk?”
The desk. The desk is still inside. I had forgotten all about it.
“Martha mentioned that you might need some help with it.”
“Right,” I say. Then admit, “Actually, I have no idea what to do with a desk like that.”
“You can get a good price for it. I know a thing or two about antiques. Martha asked me to advise you. I mean, if you want my advice.”
“Oh, I do. I really, really need some advice today.”
“I have a friend who’s a dealer, and he more or less specializes in antique desks. I could give him a call.”
“That would be great. I can pay you if he buys it.”
“Oh no, I’m happy to help Martha. I got a nice commission on her house. What do you hear from her lately?”
“Not very much,” I say.
“Where are you living these days? With your gram so far away?”
“I don’t have a place to live actually. I was living with my girlfriend, but we broke up.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I know.”
“Well, you can’t live here anymore. The new owner is coming in a week. A family of four. Two little boys.”
“They’ll love it,” I say. My voice thickens. “It was the best place I ever lived.”
He looks at me for a long moment, scratching his whiskered chin. Perhaps he is just now noticing my disheveled state, my red eyes. He says hesitantly, “You know, son, I have an empty room at the back of my house if you need a place to stay for a month or two. I mean, since you’re Martha’s grandson.”
I am suddenly holding my breath. I say, “I can pay the rent. I have a little money from my mom.”
“Martha’s daughter?”
I shook my head. “She didn’t have any kids. I was her … honorary grandson.”
“Honorary grandson? Is that right? Maybe that’s why I feel like I can trust you not to make any trouble in my house.”
“I’ll be too busy to make trouble. I need to find a job right away.”
“Do you want to see the room, Chris? There’s a small bed in it. And a dresser. And a chair.”
“That sounds fine. Did you say it’s in the basement?”
“No, it’s at the back of the first floor. With a separate entrance.”
I find that I am faintly disappointed. But quickly recover. First floor is good. Bed is good. Separate entrance is good. Aloud I say, “Thank you so very much, Mr. Carter.”
“You can call me Frank.”
“Okay, Frank. I’ll come later on today with my stuff. A few things. Some small boxes. No furniture. And I promise I won’t stay long.”
“All right then. And I’ll call my friend about the desk. You can tell Martha I’m helping you.”
I agree. I do not want to tell him yet that Mrs. M. is dead, in case that makes him change his mind about me. Too unconnected now. Too alone. Just me and a few boxes and a walking boot and one gigantic desk.
I get up from the porch chair and limp over to Clara’s perfectly packed car. Time to go back and face the three of them; they will be waiting for whatever I will tell them about my next move. I will be standing on both legs when I tell them. They will see that for once I am sure about what is best for me.
Before I start the car, I lower my head over the wheel and whisper, “Wait, wait, since when am I sure about what is best for me? How is anybody ever sure about that?”
My questions echo in the empty car. I have no idea what I am doing. But there is no terror in my uncertainty. I actually feel pretty strong, stronger than I would have ever thought possible after such a terrible morning. Strong enough to get through the rest of this day, definitely.
At least the story that comes now will be all my own story.
I take a deep breath. I start the car.
I think I got this, Mrs. M.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARGARET WILLEY has writen in many genres over a career that spans decades. All of her books and stories come from a personal place, either something that happened to her or something she witnessed at close range. Booklist called her most recent novel, Four Secrets, “rich in unique voices” in its starred review. Margaret lives in Grand Haven, Michigan, with her husband, Richard Joanisse. Visit her online at www.margaretwilley.com.
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