Frost on My Window

by Angela Weaver

  “She sure does know how to handle your mother,” Pop leaned in close to whisper in my ear. I turned my head towards him and looked into a mirror. Father’s daughter. I was Pop’s spitting image, and he mine, visible Russell cheekbones and wide, almond-shaped eyes framed by clear, deep brown, maple skin.

  “Maybe we should take lessons?” I whispered.

  Rena, Mother’s sister’s child. To me Rena was a long-wished for sister and blood kin first cousin. Yet she was more to my mother. She was a chance to make the past right. Sister’s child. She was my mother’s best friend, accomplice, and little girl child. When younger, Rena would sit still for hours between her legs as Mom’s hands braided and twisted, pulled and laced her hair.

  My cousin would close her eyes and my mother’s voice would always grow husky, as she wove stories of Aunt Mary into each strand of her hair. The gradual transformation would take place over hours as I watched. Mom’s face would lose its firmness and her lips would soften as if she were asleep, napping with remembrance, and she would tell her childhood tales.

  “Don’t know about you, but I’ve been taking notes for some time. How you think I kept your Momma from leaving me?” Pop replied.

  “By eating?” I joked.

  We both burst into laughter. When I looked up with tears in my eyes, Mom and Rena had the two of us in their sights.

  I watched Mom raise her eyebrows. “Anything the two of you’d like to share?” she asked.

  “Nah,” I responded.

  “Are you sure?” She looked from Pop’s smiling face back to mine.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Positive,” Pop answered, giving my hand a little squeeze.

  I couldn’t get the smile off my face. Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, Rena walked into the bathroom and sat down on the cushioned toilet seat. I automatically handed her the toothpaste. Taking the facial soap and rubbing it on the washcloth, I began to scrub my face.

  “So what were you and Pop laughing about?” Rena asked in between brushing her teeth. My eyes were closed but I could imagine her sitting there with her legs crossed holding the toothbrush like a scepter.

  “Food,” I replied before bending over the sink and cupping my hands underneath the lukewarm water. I took a breath and dunked my face in my hands, rinsing twice before reaching for the towel.

  “Food?” Rena parroted.

  I nodded my head and smiled. “Mom’s cooking. That’s the only reason Pop thinks she stays married to him. To fatten him up.”

  Rena let out a peal of laugher that bounced off the tiles of the bathroom and gladdened my heart. My father’s weight was a mystery. The man I saw today looked exactly like the man in the old black and white photos. Maybe some extra lines about his mouth from laughing too hard, a little less hair on the top of his head and reading glasses, but no heavier.

  “She asked me again,” Rena said before spitting.

  I paused from spreading the moisturizer over my face. “What?”

  “She asked why you left after graduation.”

  “What did you tell her?” I asked.

  “Same thing. More money, better opportunity, and all that jazz.”

  “She buy it?” I rubbed the night cream in. Rena shook her head and resumed brushing her teeth.

  “Thought so,” I muttered.

  “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell her.”

  “What am I going to say, Rena? I couldn’t stand the cold? I grew up making snowmen in the middle of January.”

  “Gotta do better than that.”

  “How about I needed to keep your wild behind out of trouble?” I moved back, letting her rinse her toothbrush and mouth.

  “That might work,” Rena smiled.

  “This shouldn’t matter. We’re back. Just two hours away.”

  “Close, but not too close. Ain’t that right, cuz?”

  I grinned. “Exactly.”

  Chapter 4

  Accidentally waking up before the alarm went off, I lay motionless underneath the ivory-colored canopy of my bed. As a little girl, I’d never want to leave it on Saturday mornings. As an adult, I rolled over, wiped the crust out of my eyes, and gazed out the window to see the pale glow of sunrise reach through branches of an old oak tree.

  Pulling away the light quilt, I sat up and put my feet on the cool hardwood floor. I stood and opened the closet door, then fit my feet into gray bunny slippers and went downstairs. The smell of chicory-laced coffee met me on the bottom stair.

  I paused, wiping the cobwebs of sleep from my eyes as I entered the kitchen. Morning sunlight had begun to spread over the linoleum floor. Pop’s aloe plants lined the windowsill. The automatic coffeemaker stood filled and Mom’s yellow elephant clock still sat ticking away in the corner.

  “What’s got you up so early, pumpkin?” came Pop’s voice.

  I turned to see my father seated at the table with one hand gripping a coffee cup and the other paused in the act of turning the newspaper page. My heart contracted and I felt the threat of tears behind my eyes.

  “Nothing. Just woke up early.”

  Warmth suffused every cell of my body as happiness I hadn’t felt in a long time brought a smile to my face. It was being home, being here. It was the sound of my father’s voice, memories of the mornings Pop would sneak and let me have a sip of his coffee. The past washed over me with every smell and object. Everything was a piece of me and Pop was the biggest piece of them all.

  “Well, grab a cup of coffee and take a seat. You can help me make breakfast in a minute.”

  After reaching into the note-covered fridge, I stirred cream and sweetener into my cup before taking a seat across from my father.

  “Anything interesting?” I asked, reaching for the comics section.

  “Just more bad news,” he replied.

  “Ouch,” I barked out, startled by the sharp rap on my hand.

  “Leah, you know better than to go after that part of the paper until I finish. Did you lose your manners on the flight from California?” His eyes twinkled. “You gotta ask.”

  Some things never changed. I took a sip of coffee and waited. Soon Pop passed over the section, grinning as he continued to read.

  A few newspaper articles and a political debate later, I used a glass to cut a perfect circle of dough for the best biscuits north of Virginia.

  “Don’t forget to grease the baking sheet.”

  “I won’t, Pop.”

  “No, I don’t mean that spray stuff your Mama uses. Get the Crisco.”

  “Okay.”

  I looked over at Pop as he laid the strips of turkey bacon on the broiler pan.

  “You know, pumpkin, if you cook this stuff the right way it don’t taste so bad,” he admitted, shaking his head.

  The corners of my mouth turned upwards. Mom’s new found health kick seemed to be working. Little by little things had changed. Pork bacon to turkey. Salt to garlic salt and herbs, sugar to artificial sweetener.

  “So do you miss California?” Pop’s question ended my waiting. I had prepared for this since getting in the car yesterday afternoon.

  I told a half-truth. “I miss my friends.” I missed so many nameless things, treasured spaces. I missed the laid-back California lifestyle, the sunshine, the hills, and the scent of the ocean.

  “Anybody in particular I should know about?”

  I reached into the overhead cabinet and pulled out a small glass. “Not yet.”

  There had been friends, boyfriends, and dates. The problem was that none of them got past the second round with the ghost of Lance living in my heart.

  Pop pulled down the oven door and placed the bacon on the top rack, then rinsed his hands in the sink.

  “I had hoped…”

  “I know.” My smile was weak, tired.

  “I worry about you, pumpkin. I won’t be around forever, and your mama and me both want all you kids settled, happy.”

  Hot potato. My mind dropped the thought of my fathe
r’s death faster than I could blink. My right hand automatically pressed the open end of the glass into the dough.

  “I’m happy, Pop.”

  “You know what I mean. Married and giving me some grandkids to spoil. That son of mine ain’t gonna be settling down anytime soon. Ralph’s too busy running around to think about starting a family.”

  I picked up a buttermilk biscuit and laid it on the cookie sheet. A perfect white circle.

  “I’d love to have that happen, but it’s easier said than done.”

  Placing the glass to the side, I laid out all the biscuits in straight lines. I looked over to see Pop’s back as he leaned over the stove. His soft, bushy salt and pepper hair stood unchanged since I was in high school. Right then, I wanted to crawl into his lap, be a little girl again, hear his voice as he fed Rena and me ‘happily ever after’ for dessert.

  Putting on the orange-colored oven mitt, I walked behind him, placing the biscuits on the bottom rack of the oven. As I drew away, the smell of Cream of Wheat brought back memories of my grandmother making breakfast when I was a little girl. For the second time that morning, I felt like crying.

  “Don’t you cry when I’m gone ’cause I’ll know about it.” Momma’s voice rose in my mind. I saw my grandmother standing by the kitchen sink with her black gold-rimmed Las Vegas cup. She was always the center of the kitchen in my mind. Her smooth, even-textured fingertips often settled on my shoulder. When I buried my face in her robe, the familiar scent of Shalimar would rub off on my cheek.

  “Oh, Momma, I wish you were here,” I murmured as I put my hands in the soapy dishwater. Even after Pop installed a dishwasher, she would wash her dishes in the sink.

  “Ain’t no machine built that can clean my iron skillets. You just step aside and let me handle this,” she’d order.

  Ralph, Rena, and I would watch from our perches at the kitchen table. Our eyes widened to the size of saucers as we watched Mom and Pop’s shoulders slump when grandmother would scold them for one thing or another. We would all take turns drying and putting up the pans. Then when it was all done and the table cleared, Momma would dry her hands on the flower-covered dishtowel, then reach into her pocket and pull out a small glass container. When she dipped her long fingers into the white cream and rubbed her hands together, the scent of roses filled the air.

  “Why don’t you go and get lazybones out of bed while I scramble some eggs,” Pop said.

  “Okay.”

  I heard Mama moving around in her bedroom as I passed by. Opening the door, I walked inside Rena’s violet bedroom. The room was filled with sunlight, but Rena was asleep with her mouth slightly open and her locks spread out like vines over the pillow. I wondered if she felt it, too, the pull of the past, the warm safety of home. Maybe that was what kept her in bed. Maybe it was dreams. Dreams of yesterday. Dreams of parents long gone. I hated to wake her. It was as if my pulling her into morning would kill the peace I saw on her sleeping face.

  I watched as Rena’s eyes fluttered open as if she could hear my thoughts.

  “Rise and shine, lazy. Breakfast is going to be on the table in about five minutes,” I said cheerfully.

  “Biscuits and gravy?” she yawned.

  “And Cream of Wheat,” I added.

  “Freshly squeezed orange juice?” She smiled though half-closed eyes.

  I put my hand on my hip. “Hey, this isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. I did find apple juice in the fridge.”

  She sat up and rubbed the sleep out her eyes. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  I waved and skipped out of the room, running into Mom in the hallway. Mom leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, a brown satin headscarf tied tight around her head and a soft smile on her face. She reached out and hugged me tightly.

  “I almost thought that I had dreamed that my two girls had come home.”

  I remembered opening my eyes last night as the door slowly swung open and the light from the hallway crept into my room. I saw the bottom of Mom’s robe before my eyes drifted closed again. The warmth of her breath on my cheek and the smell of hand lotion had drifted over me as I fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Lee, long time no see.”

  Oh, hell!

  I wanted to slam the door and run up to my room. Sometimes I felt unlucky, but this? Having the love of your life knock on the door was a curse. I stood holding onto the doorknob, half blinded by the glare of sunlight. My hand would not let go. I was squeezing the cold metal and inside I was shivering. The blast of summer’s heated air had turned ice cold at the sound of my name on his lips.

  “You, too, Lance. Come on in.”

  Maybe the coolness of my tone was lost in the humidity. It could have been one of the mornings when as children one of us would race through the other’s door heading for the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around me as if I were twelve years old and just come back from camp. He hugged me like the boy I used to know, the best friend who missed me. That ache in my heart I thought long gone suddenly reappeared and I just wanted to be close to him.

  “Man, it’s quiet in here. Where’s the folks?” he asked.

  “Mom and Pop ran to the store to pick up some food for his poker game. Rena’s taking a nap.”

  “What’s Pistol Pete doing sleeping this time of day?” he asked, calling Rena by her nickname.

  “She came down with a bad headache. You know how her sinuses used to act up during the summer. Want something to drink?”

  “Sounds good,” he replied.

  Lance followed behind me as I turned and walked towards the kitchen.

  “So what’s been up with you? Where have you been?” I questioned as I walked over and took two glasses out of the cabinet. I turned briefly to watch him settle down at the kitchen table.

  “Mom called me on Friday. She was telling me the neighborhood news when she mentioned that you and Rena had come for a visit.”

  I poured soda over the ice cubes and the sound of fizz seemed to fill my brain. “She told me that you were living in the Big Apple.”

  I picked up the glasses and walked over to place them on the table.

  “Yeah,” he responded. “I’m working on a consulting gig. Internet, e-commerce, and systems stuff. What about you?”

  “Same industry, different field. I’m the content manager in the website design division of an advertising firm.”

  “Serious?” He sounded impressed.

  “Uh-huh.” I smiled. Lance’s eyes had opened with surprise. I was an English and history girl while Lance got his first computer book from Pop.

  “Silicon Alley?” he asked referring to New York’s version of the California technology hub.

  “You guessed it.” I took a sip of the Coke and the liquid burned my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. For the first time, I looked at Lance outside the image of memory.

  “You look great, Lee. California seems to have treated you well.”

  He gave me that look. The one a brother gives when he sees a woman lookin’ fine with her hair done, black heels, and short red dress. I couldn’t keep from feeling the warmth of his compliment.

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  Time and experience had left their marks upon his face. Tiny lines around his eyes gave him a wiser look. The once chubby cheeks were now defined. The generous mouth that had been quick to smile or crack a joke back in the day seemed still. But all that made the man look better.

  “Hey, you remember Monica?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “Yeah. What happened to her?” I smiled, remembering the petite girl who followed all of us around the neighborhood. We played basketball every day in the summer and then we’d walk Monica home. Lance would pick her up so she could dunk the ball.

  “She got married three months ago.”

  “Is she still living in Philly?”

  “Moved to Jersey. DJ got a job with Merrill Lynch.”

  My hand stilled as I reached for the glass. “DJ?” I repeated. “Monica married DJ?�
�� I couldn’t reconcile the idea with the image, the thought of Monica, the shy wallflower, with DJ.

  “Couldn’t believe it myself,” Lance added.

  Smart, soft-spoken, church-going Monica with DJ, the wannabe high school street thug. For a dollar a week, he’d promised to protect Ralph from the older schoolyard bullies.

  “He’s changed. I ran into him at the barbershop a couple of months back. He spent the entire time talking about 401Ks, home improvement, kids, Bible study, and buying a dog.”

  “Don’t tell me. He wants a pit bull?”

  “You guessed it,” he laughed.

  “Heard any more gossip?” I asked after taking another sip.

  Lance’s brow crinkled. “You remember Mr. DeRosa?”

  “How could I forget him?” I chuckled with the remembrance of my social studies teacher. “Every time I see the fat guy with the small mustache on the Dunkin Doughnuts commercial, I think of Mr. DeRosa. What happened to him?” I asked.

  “Guess we were too much for him. After we graduated he joined the Peace Corps, spent two years in Africa, and then became a Buddhist monk somewhere in Vietnam.”

  At that point my mouth dropped open. I felt a twinge of guilt. Of all the things I imagined Lance might say, that wasn’t one of them.

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “You can’t make this stuff up.”

  “True.”

  By chance, I looked towards Lance’s left hand and couldn’t stop the heady rush of satisfaction at the lack of a gold band on his ring finger. After church the other day, Mrs. Phillips had been downright gleeful telling Rena and me that Lance had divorced Sherrie. I had just sat there as Lance’s Mom and Rena re-hashed all the drama and nodded their heads in mutual agreement.

  “I guess you know Sherrie and I got divorced,” Lance said, having caught my look at his left ring finger.

  “Your Mom told me. I’m sorry.”

  Deep in the pit of my stomach, I felt a crack. Through the narrow fissure, the sound of wailing drifted up and filled my head. I looked up at the older, more hardened Lance sitting across from me staring into a half-empty glass.