“What if the whole can of money goes missing?”
“I’ll cover it. It’ll be fun. Let’s try it.”
Crowds gathered on the sidewalk waiting for the start of the parade. I met James in front of Meaks Deli. Inside we loaded up on lemonade and deep-fried pickles. You read that right, deep-fried pickles.
We were walking down the sidewalk toward the park when James stopped and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He walked over to a young man who was scraping a pile of manure from the street and shoveling it into a hand cart. James said something to him and then shook his hand.
When he came back, I asked, “Do you know him?”
“I do now.”
“Really.” I looked up at him with skepticism.
“Yes, really, I was saying hi.”
Just as the procession came down Fort Hill and turned the corner onto Main Street, we found a place to watch the parade under the shade of a maple that bordered the park. I gave the parade a score of an eight. There were several long gaps. I don’t like parade gaps—they weaken the momentum.
My favorite entry was a group of a dozen boys and girls, ages maybe five to sixteen or so, who were rolling along on Heelys (shoes with little wheels in the soles). A boom box and speakers were in the rear basket of the three-wheeled bicycle that was being pedaled ahead of them. The group did their rolling, twirling dance routines to the music. I bet you won’t ever see that in New York City on the third Thursday in November.
After the parade I walked back to the bakery, and Sara and I set up our experiment on the sidewalk. We covered a card table with a red and white checked cloth, filled two baskets with all of the pastries that we had wrapped in plastic wrap, and made a sign that read, Priced as marked. Leave your money on-your-honor. Next to the sign, we left an empty coffee can with an opening cut into the lid.
When Sara and I arrived at the open door of James’ apartment, there were at least twenty people mingling, but I didn’t see James. Some of the partygoers looked up. I saw some smirks and then they went back to their conversations. Maybe Sara was right.
Sara tilted her head towards me but kept her eyes on the gathering as if she was afraid they might attack, and she didn’t want to be caught off guard. “This is going to be fun,” she said.
A woman walked in from the balcony, carrying two large platters full of food. Her face lit up when she saw us standing in the doorway, and she set the plates down on a buffet and walked across the room with her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Diana, James’ sister. You must be Cammy.”
“Yes, I am, and this is Sara.”
Diana looked so much like James I would have noticed her on the street. She had the same brown eyes, dark hair, olive complexion, and features that were just a smaller version of her brother’s.
“James is on the balcony, manning the grill. Why don’t you go on out, and I’ll bring you something to drink. What would you like?”
Sara and I walked out to the balcony and there was James, wearing a red apron and flipping burgers. When he saw us, he set down his spatula and wiped his hands on the apron and said, “Hey there, you made it.”
“James, this is Sara Strauss.”
James took Sara’s hand and wrapped it up in both of his. “It’s really great to meet you, Sara. Thank you for coming.”
Sara looked at me cross-eyed and then she said to James, “Thanks for letting Cammy drag me along.”
“You’re welcome… I think.”
“She means that in the best possible way.” I reached behind Sara and gave her dreads a tug.
“Can I get you something to drink?” James asked.
“Diana’s getting it. You and your sister sure look a lot alike,” I told him.
“That happens sometimes with twins.”
“She’s your twin?”
“Yes and my band mate. Tell me, what instrument does she play?”
“She’s a singer. She doesn’t play an instrument,” I guessed.
“You’re scary.”
“I’m right?”
James smiled and shook his head at me, just the way Race did. I liked it but it made me miss Race. It was weird.
“Is your mom here?”
“She’s in the kitchen. I’ll take you in to meet her.”
We followed James into the apartment and Sara whispered to me, “He’s nice to look at.”
At the kitchen sink was the tiny matriarch of the Alexander Empire, doing dishes.
“Mom, there’s a couple of lovely ladies here I want you to meet.”
James’ mother turned around and smiled. The creases at the corner of her eyes curved upward framing big brown eyes. When James walked over to her, she had to reach up to wrap her arm around his waist. Her hair was white and cut as short as mine, little boy short.
“Celia Alexander, this is Sara Strauss.”
Celia reached up and squeezed a handful of Sara’s dreads. “Those are pretty,” she said in a soft voice, “How do you get it to do that?”
Sara laughed. “I’ll show you. You’d look great in them.”
“I think I’ll leave that to you young people. I don’t have that much time left on this earth. I don’t want to spend it messing with my hair.”
“And, Mom, this is Cammy Coleman.”
I held out my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Alexander.” She set her hand in mine and I felt like a giant.
“Call me Celia. It’s nice to meet you, Cammy.”
Sara and Celia hit it off big time, and the two of them never left the kitchen all night. Sara knew who her friends were. Every once in a while, I’d hear a burst of Sara’s laughter from the kitchen and a snort. Sara is a champion snorter.
I made the rounds with James as he introduced me to his guests. Most, as it turned out, were a good bunch, but there were some high noses in the crowd. No great loss.
Diana gave me a tour of James’ apartment and took the opportunity to tell me all of the wonderful things about her brother as if she was trying to get me to buy him. I don’t believe James had anything to do with it. Diana just loves her brother, and I could tell it pained her to see him go through what he was going through. She wanted him to be happy.
“Do you know he tips the street cleaners?” Diana asked me.
“No, but when we were down at the parade today, he did go and talk to a young man who was shoveling manure into a cart. He told me he was saying hi.”
“Yes, and he was thanking him for keeping the horse manure off the street. Then he tipped him. He’s been doing it for years. I walked up behind him one day and caught him, but he’s never admitted it.”
Maybe I should buy him.
At the end of the evening, James and I were on the balcony overlooking Main Street.
“You leave in the morning?” he asked me.
“On the eleven o’clock ferry.”
I don’t want to be one of those women that go from one man to another, I reminded myself. He’s a friend, just a friend.
“I like you, Cammy.” James blushed and bit down on the inside of his cheek. “That sounded like we’re in the seventh grade, didn’t it?”
“It sounded like you were being honest. I like you too, James.”
“You’ll keep in touch and let me know what you decide to do?”
“I will.”
On the way back to the bakery that night, Sara excitedly told me all about Celia Alexander, all the places she’d been, the things she’d done—mountain climbing, sailing, motorcycle riding—and that she had raised her three young children on her own after her husband died.
When we saw the card table, two empty baskets, and the coffee can we realized we had forgotten about our experiment. We gathered everything up and went inside to evaluate the outcome: one hundred thirty-seven dollars and fifty-seven cents. All the money was accounted for plus a five dollar and fifty-seven cent overage.
In the morning I borrowed Sara’s bike, an old cruiser, to ride to The Lake L
odge. She had painted the metal frame with tiny designs and some of her favorite words—Splash, Happy, Bubbles, Joy, and Noodles, which is her favorite curse word. Plastic daisies were stuck in the warp of the wicker basket. The basket was attached to the handlebars with purple pipe cleaners that were tied in bows. A little metal license plate hung from the back of the seat that read, Island Fever.
I left a note on George’s door. I didn’t know if he still had the information I had given to Betty, so I wrote that I’d be in touch and included my phone number. I’m not sure what I thought he would do with it. It just made me feel better to make sure he had it.
I barely made it back to the bakery to grab my suitcase and rush down to the ferry before it pulled away. Sara Strauss doesn’t say goodbye, ever, so I ran down the stairs, hugged her and called back as I left out the front door, “Save some snow for me. I’ll be back.”
It didn’t feel as though I was going home but leaving home. I stood at the railing on the top deck of the ferry and watched St. Gabriel Island get smaller and smaller, and I felt the weight in my chest get heavier. It was familiar, something I remembered from childhood—homesickness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Last Twenty-Five Years
I do not understand how anyone can live life without making lists. I have been making lists since I could write. How else could someone possibly know what needed to be done, what they wanted to remember, or take stock of their life?
I am a recovering floatey writer, someone who makes their lists on sheets or scraps of paper and stuffs them here and there. The problem with that method is another list is needed to write down where all the lists have been placed.
When Einstein, my day planner, came into my life, I was able to keep more plates spinning than ever before, to Race’s dismay, too much of a good thing. But I do love my lists. Just making them gives me a sense of accomplishment. Whatever I organize on the pages of my planner is an idea, a possibility, waiting to be put into action.
On the plane I opened Einstein and began writing lists. I made a list of what it would cost to renovate The Lake Lodge property, and I made a list of what I needed to do before I put the house up for sale. I would need to clean and clean-out, paint, and there was a list of things that needed to be repaired—a broken tile in the guest bath, a leaky faucet, a toilet handle that stuck, a cracked light-switch plate.
And I made a list of what I would need to do before I moved across the country. I would have the mother of all moving sales. There was no point in paying to have all of the stuff I had accumulated over the previous twenty-five-plus years moved thousands of miles and then shipped onto the island.
The money I made selling my worldly possessions would all go into the lodge. I would sell everything—the furniture, cupboards full of kitchen gadgets, linens, arts and crafts supplies, collections I had gathered piece by piece over the years at yard sales and junk shops. A quarter here, a dollar there and eventually I had collected complete sets of Rose Point china, Limoges, and candlewick glassware, which were worth a hundred times what I’d paid for them.
Before I did anything, I would talk to Janie. She had never planned on going back to Texas when she graduated. It was always New York or maybe Europe for a while. When she had her journalism degree, she wanted to write about the world.
But I knew that it would be most difficult for Janie not to have the house to come home to, or to at least know it was there if she wanted to come home. Paul would be quicker to adjust to the idea. Marine Biology would be his life, and I suspected his roots would never run too deep.
The first thing I did when I got back to Texas was to take a walk with Janie to tell her what I wanted to do. Her first reaction was shock. I could see it in her face, but then she said, “Mom, it sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to see it.”
She was taking care of me, putting me first. I didn’t like it but just as Paul and Janie would be building their own independent lives, I would need to make a life for myself too.
It took me a month to prepare the house to sell and then I interviewed realtors I had looked up in the phonebook.
Remember Susanna, my co-chair for the Habitat for Humanity Banquet who didn’t want to ‘burden me’ with the annual event? Tom, her husband, Race’s longtime friend is a realtor. He called when he heard I had listed the house and asked, “Cammy, why didn’t you list the house with me?”
Hmm, let me think.
“I didn’t want to burden you with it, Tom.” And then I hung up. Not a gracious moment for me.
I told the realtor I had hired that I didn’t want to set the price too high. “I have something I need the money for. Price it to sell,” I said.
She insisted the market was booming, the house was a gem, and since it was in a desirable neighborhood that was within commuting distance of San Antonio, she could get me a good price. When she did suggest the listing price, I had my doubts, but the house was listed on a Monday and three weeks later I had an offer for the asking price.
I called Loretta and told her I had sold the house and was going to make an offer on the lodge. She was quiet and then she asked, “When can I come for a visit?”
I called Betty to leave a message for George. When he called me back, I made my offer. A lawyer called me the next day and told me my offer had been accepted. He said he would fax the paperwork and I could take possession immediately.
It was a little unusual, so I called James. He made some phone calls and said it all checked out. It was happening faster than I could keep up with. I was thankful Janie was back at school, finishing her senior year of college and not around to see everything setting itself to change in a flash.
I called Betty again to get another message to George to call me. He did.
“I didn’t know if you knew my offer was accepted.”
“Yup, I’ll clear out.”
“Oh, no, George, please don’t. I’d like you to stay if you want to stay. I’m not sure when I’ll be moving in, and I can’t take care of the place all by myself. Collard Greens and Cat need to be taken care of and the lodge being haunted and everything, I don’t want to live there alone.” I laughed. He didn’t of course, or maybe he was laughing hysterically, one of those silent, oxygen-deprived laughs that can cause seizures. I pictured George laughing that way and I had to hold in a giggle. “Will you stay?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, great. I’ll let you know when I’ll be moving in.”
When I called Sara, she screamed into the phone but insisted that I would have to visit her in town. She would not be coming to the lodge.
“Sara, it’s not haunted. You’ll see. When I get it fixed up, you’ll love it.”
“I’m glad you’ll be living here, Cammy, thrilled, but I do not see myself loving that place, not ever.”
“You’ll see,” I assured her.
I called my brother Frank. “My sister the innkeeper,” he said. “Let me know what I can do to help.” I love my brother.
And I called my parents. I was glad I couldn’t see their faces. The silence was enough.
Then I called James to ask him for recommendations for a carpenter, an electrician, and a plumber. “You’re going to need a crew of carpenters, electricians, and plumbers my parade-loving friend.”
“Okay, find me a crew, then.”
I looked at my list of what I would take to the island and I was trying hard not to add to it. It all had to fit in my car.
framed photographs
clothes and shoes (only my favorites)
books (only what will fit in one box)
favorite gardening tools (dirt scoop, gloves, Felco pruners, Janie’s childhood rake and shovel)
Viking sewing machine, serger, sewing box, Mundial fabric scissors
watercolor box
recipe box
three favorite kitchen knives
Grandma Gitta’s oversized cast iron frying pan (heavy but essential)
two sets of bath and bed linens
Einstein
the Schwinn
And I made a list of what I would leave for Paul and Janie.
family photos and scrapbooks
Coleman family heirlooms
Things Race has given me
Cleaning out a lifetime of treasures and memories was a painful task. I knew selling most of what I owned would be difficult but the process was so painful, it was almost debilitating. I forced myself to go through one more closet, one more cupboard, one more shelf and I was making progress.
But it was easy to be slowed down by old birthday cards, photographs, Captain’s dog collar (the little mutt Paul brought home that Race told him he couldn’t keep). Captain lived to be fourteen years old and he was the best dog ever. Race and he were inseparable.
I sorted everything into boxes—Paul and Janie, donate, keep, sell, trash, and then there was the box that had no designation. It was where I put things I knew I was not planning on keeping, but I hadn’t been able to put into any of the other boxes.
In that box was my wedding ring placed back in the red velvet case it came in, all the cards and letters Race had written to me over the years, and the copy of All for Love by Tasha Tudor he had given me as a Valentine’s Day present. Inside the front cover was written, Forever, Race and that’s where I kept the letter and the white rose he gave me the day of my college graduation. Also in the box was what had been my favorite gardening shirt, one of Race’s old dress shirts, the shirt he wore at our wedding.
I was emptying the cupboards in the kitchen using my, it’s going to get worse before it gets better method. Race would have me empty one cupboard, no, one shelf and deal with everything I pulled out, clean the shelf, and then move on to the next. I had the entire contents of one bank of cabinets on the floor. It was easier to sort and take inventory that way.
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