They’ve nurtured me for the past five days. We’ve knitted and crocheted, depending on which sister got to me first. And I’m not too bad at either of them now, after a great deal of practice. We listen to the breeze outside and not much else.
When Liza cooked, we ate classic French food like coq au vin or cassoulet or something exotic yet simple like Cornish game hen with truffles. Anna usually set out homemade bread and cheese with some fruit to round things out. Or perhaps a piece of fish and a steamed vegetable. Every morning, steaming oatmeal topped with sliced banana, laced with brown sugar, and surrounded by milk. Strong black coffee.
We walk sometimes and we sit and read, one sister beginning to hum, and the other joining in, and always they seem to stop at the very same place.
Blue moon, you saw me standing alone.
L is for the way you look at me, O is for the only one I see. V hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm.
I can only give you love that lasts forever.
And we work, scouring one room each day, gardening, raking, and canning food.
The humming is almost always off key but always exactly on the beat.
* * *
Will calls with a stockpile of information on the ecosystem of the Chesapeake Bay and “Mom, Grandma and Grandpa actually took me for a sail on a real skipjack. I got some great photos with the unbirthday camera you left for me in the suitcase. Thanks.”
We chitchat, and I decide to tell him, “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve taken the right tack with the kids who’ve made fun of you in school. Well, maybe that’s not completely true. I regret that I haven’t found the right plan.”
“You tried, Mom.”
“I’ve tried everything I could think of, bud. I talked to teachers, the administration, the janitor. I talked to anyone who would listen. I also encouraged you to take it silently, and when that didn’t work, to fight back, and when you came home with your blazer ripped, I knew that wasn’t the answer either.”
“I could have told you it was a bad idea.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You’re my mother. I figured you’d have an inside scoop on the perfect response.”
Mercy.
“And I don’t know why I didn’t look harder for an answer somewhere else. Should I have homeschooled you? Should I have just sent you over to the public school? It couldn’t have been any worse there, right?”
“Mom, I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Don’t get all revisionist on me. I was the one who asked to stay. And another thing—those guys are mean, but I’ve made other friends.”
“But those kids are so popular. Don’t you ever—?”
“Want to be popular? Sheesh, Mom. Those kids are the long-haul dorks. They’ll get to be your age and they’ll be insurance agents over the phone and they’ll wonder what happened to all that popularity. They’ll have done nothing special to speak of with their own lives.”
Does he realize he could be talking about me?
“But what if that doesn’t happen?”
“Mom, what goes around comes around. Nerds rule the world. Not the cool people. You know that. I mean, think Bill Gates, think Warren Buffet. Shoot, I’ll bet J. K. Rowling was an utter geek in high school.”
“Have you been talking about this stuff with your father?”
“Most definitely. Dad’s helped me big-time to accept these things. I don’t know why you think you have to wave a wand and make it all go away. Life is never perfect.”
Lord, oh Lord. What do you have planned for this kid? And should I buy myself protective armor just in case?
How will he take it when I tell him I’m trying to find the Andrews kids and when I tell him why?
TWENTY-ONE
Liza’s driving diverges from her personality as fully as Gloria Steinem’s face from her political views. She crammed a fifteen-minute drive into forty, the queen bee leading an angry swarm of motorists down Paper Mill Road.
I am thirteen again, sitting in the front seat of our Barracuda as Dad drives to my grandparents’ on the other side of town, or to church, or out to Loch Raven. His slowpoke ways, especially on the beltway, especially in a car that could blow the doors off most of the other vehicles on the road, made me more embarrassed than a woman caught gossiping in the church bathroom.
I can feel my own scalp.
Liza doesn’t notice a thing. “So you must be fairly discontent with your life if you feel the need to get away from it all and stay with us ancients.”
So tell me what you really think, Liza.
“Guilty.”
“I see. Is it helping?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”
“What’s so unacceptable about your life as is? Your husband seems awfully nice, and you haven’t mentioned your son in such a way as leads me to believe he’s giving you trouble.”
“No. Will’s my buddy, and Jace is a good husband. Works a lot, but he’s a good man. I’m not under the delusion that I can have it all.”
“Really? Most people are, I’ve found.”
I shrug. “Part of me is beginning to think of all my stuff like weights, not anything that lifts me up. There’s a part of me that would like to throw everything out and start over. Buy simple white plates and plain cutlery. Seven outfits. One church dress.” I’m not about to tell her the process has begun.
“Why don’t you do that? Just pare down to those things.”
“I said there’s a part of me that wants that. But having the trappings comforts me. I hate to admit it.”
She takes the next curve with all the recklessness of a tuna salad sandwich on Wonder Bread. “That’s why I’ve always loved my house. It was all created to work together without the need for more, more, more.”
“Your husband designed it?”
“Yes, he did. Including the dinnerware and the textiles. Was quite the visionary.” She turns to me, and I’m tempted to point out the window like Will does. “And he designed wonderful, affordable houses for the simple working man. Modern, of course. Functional. Inexpensive to heat. The neighborhood is down in Glen Burnie.”
“Did you have children?”
“One. He’s gone, though. I don’t talk about him. His very death defames him, and I said I’d never do that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We weren’t talking about me. I’m not the type to let people off their hooks, Heather.”
“I believe that.”
“So what about church? You haven’t said much about it, and I saw your Bible when I dusted your bedroom.”
“We left regular church attendance last year, and I don’t know whether it’s my fault or the church’s.”
“Why does it have to be anybody’s fault?”
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t it?”
“Maybe it’s not about casting blame, Heather. Maybe you’ve got a different testimony to live out.”
“Testimony?”
We turn into the parking lot of a newer building with a sanitary residentiality about it that screams, “Not a real home, but we’re trying!”
She crawls into a space, shuts off the engine, and looks at me. “It’s one of Anna’s Friends things. I always thought of testimony as our story. How God came to us and how we recognized Him and decided to follow.”
“Me too.”
“But for the Quaker it’s about the inward and the outward journey. For some reason, I always found it easy to fall into the trap that our testimony signifies all that we abstain from. I don’t smoke, or get drunk, or fool around, so my testimony is good. But Anna speaks of her testimony as something more—her good works, her commitment to the community, to the least of these—like her friend Bobby. That all of this bespeaks a commitment to the light of the Spirit that lives inside her.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“Certainly. So did your church encourage you all to move outward, or was it inwardly focused?”
“Mostly inward. I did much more for my church members than
I did for my neighbors, if that’s what you mean.”
She places her hand on the doorknob. “Maybe God’s simply flipping the equation.”
“Putting the trombones on melody?” I ask, remembering Glenn Miller.
“Who knows? Might just be something to think about.”
Liza seems more comfortable at offering concrete theories than Anna.
“And,” she continues, “if God sent you here to be with us, He’s obviously got some sort of plan. Of course, Anna’s more cerebral and ethereal and mystical about all of it than I am, so she might disagree.”
“You think?”
She leads me into the home for alcoholic men. The foyer is bright and clean, painted white with mass production artwork hanging on the walls; mostly Thomas Kinkade’s unattainable regurgitations, and wouldn’t Will the artiste have a fit? To the right, a set of steps, tan runner cascading down, leads to the upper floor.
We continue on through to a kitchen in the back. No one greets us.
“Is the place empty?”
“Yes. Everybody works outside the home during the day. Unless, of course, somebody’s sick, which isn’t out of the question. Here.” She reaches up, grabs an apron on a hook by the pantry, and hands it to me. “Get one of those big pots out and fill it with water. Set it on the stove to boil. I’m going to make pasta primavera.”
“Do you have much contact with the men?”
“Depends. Not on Fridays. I just cook and put it in the fridge to be warmed up by whoever has KP tonight.”
“Do they cook for themselves?”
“Usually. But Friday is a big night for them. Family can visit. I do this so they can eat, clean up, and spend time with their loved ones.”
She turns on a radio, and we listen to classical music from the local NPR station, working in silence, working in peace; chopping broccoli and carrots, browning onion and garlic, grating cheese.
An hour later, a man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit walks into the kitchen. “Miss Liza.”
“Howie!” She turns, and I see a different woman. She rushes over and hugs him. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in weeks!”
“Been workin’ hard. Just came in to get my insurance card. Got a doctor appointment.”
Howie possesses the lean frame of a whippet and the eyes of a basset hound.
“Are you all right, lovey?”
“Just a checkup. Been dry six months now.” Satisfaction turns down the corners of his mouth. Ah, and there’s the bulldog side of him.
“Good for you. Listen, I’ll make you a sandwich in two shakes of a lamb’s tail while you go get your card.”
Howie retreats down the hallway toward the steps.
“I just love that man. If anybody deserved to drink, it was Howie.”
But she offers nothing more, and I don’t feel it’s my place to know his story.
She hums Glenn Miller as she assembles a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich, her features younger and softer. This woman who buried a husband, buried a son. Her only son. My, but humans are resilient.
* * *
My cell phone rings, and darn it, but I’m right next to it. I really don’t feel like talking to anybody. It’s so lovely sitting here by the pool.
Legermin, Ronald.
I push the talk button. “Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Curridge?”
“Yes.”
I’m going to make him work for it.
“This is Ron Legermin. My son, Ronnie, is in your son’s class. As I’m sure you’re already frighteningly aware of.”
“Yes. It’s nice of you to call.”
“Thanks for allowing me to. Mrs. Curridge—”
“Heather.”
“Thanks. Heather, I just wanted to call and apologize for my son’s behavior this year.”
“It’s been years, actually.”
“I figured.” He sighs. “I want Ronnie to apologize to your son.”
“But then he’ll know Will had something to do with it, Ron.”
“I know. But I honestly don’t think he’ll repeat the behavior.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Believe me, he’s not having a great summer because of it. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I’ve always thought parents oblivious to their kid’s faults had no excuse. And I’m right.”
“Why don’t we just see how it goes at the beginning of the year?”
“Will you promise to keep me posted?”
“I will.”
“I can’t help my son if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I know. And I accept your apology, Ron.”
“Thanks.”
After saying good-bye, I look out over the chlorine waters of the pool. Just great. Now I’ll have to wait until September to see how this is all going to shake out. But Will would rather be hung by his hair than have to endure a false apology from Ronnie Legermin.
* * *
Anna slides open the top drawer of the built-in buffet in the dining room. “It’s all laid out in here.”
It will take me all weekend to polish this silver. But ah, it’s fabulous. Smooth and cool and sleek—artwork, really.
“Thank you, Heather. Our hands just aren’t what they used to be.”
“I really don’t mind.”
“I’m heading out for a bit, down to the market. I’m cooking tonight and I just feel like fried pork chops. Do you like fried pork chops?”
“Definitely.”
“I realize this goes without saying, but help yourself to anything you need. All we have is yours.”
“Thank you.” I pull out the first fork. “These will go nicely with my china.”
She holds a hand up to her mouth and giggles. “Oh, Heather. You crack me up, as the younger set says.”
I watch her leave the room. I hear her gather her purse and keys. Listen to the front door open and shut, the car start, the wheels roll down the drive. I love Anna.
Liza’s taking Oatmeal for a little stroll, so I put my cell phone on speaker and call Will down at his grandparents’ house. He practically shoots electrical sparks through the airwaves, he’s so filled with excitement.
“Mom, I did the coolest collage out of watercolor paper. Very abstract, but you can tell it’s the bay right around here.”
Jace’s parents bought a vacation home right on the Chesapeake Bay years ago, and now they live there all summer long. I don’t blame them one bit. It’s my favorite spot in the whole world. Who can blame anyone for wanting to live on the water?
Will has plans for more, however. Make it a series about the needy, and he’s going to show people from the Hotel drowning in the bay in front of vacation houses, and oh yeah, Grandma bought an Xbox for the place.
I don’t comment on the irony.
He also thinks about things and feels and black is black and white is white. He’s like Liza. He doesn’t let people off their hooks either.
Will asks me about the Hotel. “Mom, have you thought more about it? Really?”
“A little.” A lot.
“I mean, a kangaroo? You’ve got to see that as some sort of a sign.”
“And what would that sign be?”
“How should I know? I’m not the one who crashed her car because of it.”
“You crack me up.” As the younger set says.
Jace next.
“Hi, hon.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car on the way to lunch. Where are you?”
“In the dining room polishing silver.”
“Is that right? How’s that going?”
“Fabulous. I imagine it’ll be very therapeutic.”
“Did Anna talk you into it?” Jace has heard updates every day. He feels like he knows the sisters.
“How’d you guess?”
“I must be psychic.”
I pick up the silver polishing cloth. “Hey, while you’re there, I want you to do me a favor. Read Matthew 25 for me.”
“Sure. D
id Will tell you about his collage?”
“Yes.”
“It could be Loch Raven and our house, you know?”
“Big-time.”
“What about the sisters? How do they deal with living here in this area?”
“Shoot, Jace. Their house probably cost about $15K to build and has been paid off forever.”
“Seriously. Ouch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why did Jesus have to raise the bar so high?” he asks.
“And how did you and I get so far off track?”
Jace clears his throat. “There are a lot of people who disagree with you about what you’re thinking these days, Heather. They think the more you have, the more you must be doing something right because God’s looking upon you with favor. That Christianity should be about safety for their families, a place to stay holy and pure.”
I pick up a knife and wrap the polishing cloth around it. “I guess it’s my definition of holiness that’s changing, then.”
“I’d better go. I’m at the restaurant.”
I say good-bye and settle into the silence and smoothness of my task. Here I am, polishing expensive silver. Somehow these ladies know how to handle material possessions and social responsibility.
Still, I bet they haven’t bought anything new for this house in decades. Liza loves the things she has. Maybe there’s a key in there, loving the things you have, not the things you don’t have. And I suspect she’d give it away if someone asked for it.
Of course, I do that too. Only to trade up. Lock Jace in more. And more. And more.
Am I punishing him for the decision I made to live my life for his? Is this a retribution of sorts?
I make another call to the contractor who’s scheduled to build our tennis court next month. I cancel the plans. Maybe it’s in the cards someday. But that day is not today.
Another message on the phone. I listen to Carmen asking me if I can host the new mothers’ tea this fall and why didn’t I answer the last call?
* * *
I open my Bible to Matthew 25.
When I was hungry, you gave Me something to eat. Thirsty, you gave Me something to drink. Naked and clothed Me. Sick and in prison and you came to Me. If you’ve done it to the least of My brothers, you’ve done it to Me.
Plain Perfect & Quaker Summer 2 in 1 Page 42