Home for the Summer

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Maybe being with another person who’s been through the fairly recent death of a loved one made it easy for her.” Jack smiled. “Or maybe she just thought I had a nice face.”

  “Whatever the reason, I’m glad.” Frieda looked at her watch. “Yikes, I should get going. If I get this job it won’t be much money, but it’ll be something to put on my résumé.”

  Jack took her cup and walked her to the front door. “Break a leg,” he said, “or whatever it is people say to a writer when they’re auditioning for a gig.”

  “Thanks,” Frieda said. “For the good wishes and the coffee.” She walked out onto the small front porch and turned to give Jack one last smile. And thank you, she added silently, for the honesty.

  * * *

  The meeting with the manager of the Strawberry Lane Community Arts Education Center had gone well, and when offered the job of writing the catalogue and print ads for the upcoming fall season Frieda had happily accepted. It paid more than she had assumed it might and the scope of work was entirely reasonable. Sometimes, Frieda thought, as she drove back to her mother’s house, things really did go better than you thought they would.

  Now in the kitchen making a pitcher of iced tea, adding sprigs of fresh mint and slices of lemon to the tea bags steeping in cold water, Frieda considered what Jack had shared with her so far this summer. That Veronica had agonized over her wedding gown. That she had donated it to charity when she knew she was dying. That she had made her husband promise not to refuse love if it came his way again.

  Jack’s willingness to share information about his life with Veronica had made Frieda think. How much of her life with Aaron could she legitimately keep to herself if she and Jack—or any man—were to marry? For example, Aaron had enjoyed making rather than buying cards for her birthday. He would use whatever materials he found around the house that very morning. The results—which he called Last Minute Productions—were sometimes hilarious and always touching. Decorated with bits of kitchen twine or glitter, colored in marker or crayon, the cards were among Frieda’s greatest treasures, more valuable than the diamond pendant Aaron had given her for their tenth wedding anniversary, second only in meaning to her simple gold wedding ring. If she and Jack were to marry, would she be obliged to share the cards with him? Or would she be justified in keeping these testaments of Aaron’s love to herself?

  Frieda realized that she was jumping ahead, but these things needed thinking about. Marriage had to be about honesty if it was to thrive, and honesty was a two-way street. To a certain extent Jack would have to share his past as well and she would have to be willing to listen.

  Just as Frieda was putting the pitcher of tea into the fridge so it could brew, the front door opened and shut and a moment later Bella joined her in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” Frieda said. “Are you okay? You look distracted.”

  “I’m okay,” Bella told her. “Just hot. I was out on my bike.”

  “The iced tea isn’t ready, but there’s lemonade. Want some?”

  “Sure,” Bella said. “Thanks. Look, Mom? You know that resale shop called Dandelion Daze? You want to stop in sometime? This woman who came into Phil’s shop the other day said it was pretty cool. She was wearing these awesome hot-pink patent-leather sandals she got there for only fifteen dollars. She said they hadn’t even been worn.”

  “I didn’t think thrifters also shopped at Wainscoting and Windowseats,” Frieda said, handing a glass of lemonade to Bella. “Sure. How about we go today?”

  “Really?” Bella drained the glass. “That’d be great. How did your meeting with that arts place go?”

  “It went well,” Frieda told her. “I was offered and accepted the job. Maybe I’ll celebrate by buying myself a little something.”

  “I always want to celebrate by buying myself something!” Bella said, her expression markedly brighter than when she had first come into the kitchen.

  Frieda reached for her car keys. “Then what are we waiting for? And I’ll crank the AC in the car.”

  “Jack got it fixed?” Bella asked, following Frieda to the front door.

  “He did.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  Frieda locked the front door behind them. “Yes,” she said with a smile. “It was nice of him.”

  Chapter 73

  “Something on your mind?”

  Bella startled. “What?” she said. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, something is on my mind.” She had been thinking about Clara. She had been remembering what Clara’s housemate, the one who had accosted her as she was leaving the cottage the day before, had said. You’re Clara’s friend, right? The question had been haunting her.

  “Let me guess,” Phil said, a finger on his chin. “The something on your mind isn’t the new shipment of beeswax candles.”

  Bella looked down at the box of white and yellow candles she was supposed to be unpacking. “Oh,” she said again. “Sorry.”

  “‘Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er-wrought heart and bids it break.’”

  “What’s that?” Bella asked.

  “That, my dear Bella,” Phil said, walking toward the door of the shop, “is a line from Shakespeare’s Macbeth.”

  “We read that in English class last semester, but I don’t remember much of it. It wasn’t a very good year for me school wise.”

  “You can always read the play again,” Phil pointed out.

  “I guess,” Bella said, though she knew it was unlikely she ever would. “But why did you quote that line just now? And why did you turn the sign on the door to Closed? What’s going on?”

  “Forget about the candles for the moment, Bella. I think it’s time for me to share something important with you. Nothing scary; don’t look like that. It’s something your grandparents and your mother know about; they were there when it all happened even though your mother was only a child. And eventually your father was told, of course.”

  “Phil!” Bella cried. “You’re killing me. What is it?”

  “Once upon a time not so very long ago there was a very special man named Tony Worthington.”

  “I know. Your Tony.”

  “Yes. And he died way before he should have.”

  “I know that, too,” Bella said.

  “But you don’t know how he died.”

  “Yes, I do. It was cancer.”

  “Yes and no. Come to the office and have a seat.”

  Bella followed Phil to the back of the shop and sat in the chair at the small desk. Phil perched on the desk’s edge.

  “Bella, Tony died of complications brought about by AIDS, specifically, bronchial pneumonia. He did have cancer as well, something called Kaposi’s sarcoma.” Phil shook his head. “So many people afflicted with AIDS suffered that horror.”

  Bella felt her stomach drop. “I didn’t know any of this,” she said. “That’s awful.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know.”

  “But why tell me now?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Like I said, I just have a feeling it’s time for you to know the whole story. You’re certainly old enough. You’ve certainly experienced enough heartbreak of your own to hear the tale of another person’s heartbreak.” Phil smiled. “I would have told you and Ariel at the same time if things had been different.”

  Bella nodded. “Okay. So, now that I’m old enough or whatever, tell me everything.”

  “Remember that this was before the first antiretroviral drugs became available, so it didn’t take long for the disease to do its nasty work.”

  “AZT, right?” Bella asked. “That was the first drug. I learned about it in health class.”

  “Right,” Phil confirmed. “But AZT wasn’t introduced until 1987 and by then . . . One of the worst things about the crisis—and believe me, it was a crisis—was that the vast majority of people diagnosed with AIDS were so young. It was . . . At times it felt as if the world were coming to an end.”

  “Like
an apocalypse,” Bella murmured.

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “You said my mother remembers Tony being sick.”

  “Yes. She was little, but she remembers. She’ll sometimes mention the time we celebrated Tony’s birthday at Chauncey Creek. He didn’t look so good at the time—Kaposi’s sarcoma had pretty much wrecked his appearance—and I think Frieda was a little frightened at first, but it didn’t take her long to realize Tony was the same person she had always loved.”

  “Did he . . .” Bella hesitated a moment before going on. “Was he in the hospital when he died?” Dying anywhere was terrible, Bella thought, but dying in a place as universally frightening as the hospital sounded doubly terrible. At least it did to her.

  “No,” Phil said. “Tony wanted to die at home. The alternative would have been for him to be admitted to hospice. Frankly, I was scared witless to have him home—there’s a reason I don’t work in the medical profession—but how could I say no? So we had a nurse to handle administering his pain meds and your grandparents were amazing through it all. They stayed our loyal friends to the end. They weren’t the only ones, of course, but they were the most important to me and Tony.”

  “Grandma I can see,” Bella said. “She’s all about taking care of people. But my grandfather, really?”

  “Really,” Phil said. “He’s a strong guy—at least, he was back then—and he’d lift Tony out of bed and get him into the wheelchair. That is, until Tony was too weak to sit up. Steve would even help me bathe Tony while Ruby was in the kitchen cooking meals for us. And when I simply needed a break, a breath of fresh air or some time to myself, Ruby and Steve would take turns staying with Tony, reading to him when he was awake—he was blind at the end—or just watching over him until I got home. I couldn’t have managed without friends like your grandparents. So many of my community were sick or caring for someone who was sick. It was all so overwhelming.”

  Bella shook her head. “It seems so long ago. I mean, I wasn’t even born when things were at their worst. Everything is so different now, isn’t it? HIV isn’t an automatic death sentence. It doesn’t automatically become full-blown AIDS.”

  “You’re right. Thirty years ago we lived in a very different world. Want to hear the worst part, at least for me?”

  Bella wasn’t sure that she did, but she nodded.

  “Tony’s family refused to allow me to attend the funeral.”

  A little sob escaped Bella’s throat. She jumped out of the chair and threw her arms around Phil. “But why?” she cried against his chest. “You were the one who took care of him when he was sick! You loved him!”

  Bella dropped her arms and Phil grabbed a few tissues from the box on the desk and handed them to her. “Thanks,” Bella murmured. Her father and sister’s funeral was awful, but to be kept from it would have been even worse than the misery of attending it. Other people have suffered, too, Bella thought as she blew her nose. Other people have endured far worse things than I have. And they’ve survived. I can’t ever forget that.

  “Tony’s parents blamed me for their son’s illness,” Phil explained when Bella had regained her composure. “They blamed me for ‘making’ Tony gay. Not being legally family, I had to accept their decision.” Phil smiled ruefully. “By that time in my life I was already an old hand at being the excluded one.”

  “Did my grandparents go to the funeral?” Bella asked, sitting back in the chair.

  “They did, though Frieda stayed home with me. Your grandparents felt the funeral would be too much for her.” Phil smiled ruefully. “As Phil’s friends, Ruby and Steve Hitchens weren’t exactly welcomed with open arms. Your grandfather tried to talk to Tony’s father afterward, but he just turned away. Steve knew enough not to make a scene. After all, these people were grieving the untimely loss of their only son.”

  “Did you forgive Tony’s parents for keeping you away?” Bella asked. “I’m not sure if I could.”

  Phil shrugged. “I’m not sure if I have forgiven them. I just try not to think about it. In fact, before today I haven’t talked about the funeral in years. I think forgiveness requires a good deal of thought and attention and energy. Maybe I’ve never really tried to forgive Mr. and Mrs. Worthington.”

  “Well, I think they should apologize to you!” Bella said stoutly. “Maybe ignorance was an excuse way back when, but it’s not an excuse now. They should know that AIDS isn’t anyone’s fault. They should know you can’t ‘make’ someone heterosexual or homosexual or transgender or whatever. People just are who they are.”

  “The Worthingtons are old people now, Bella,” Phil pointed out, “if they’re still alive. Even if they wanted to apologize they might not know how. They might never have stopped grieving their loss. They might feel ashamed of how they treated me.”

  “You’re making excuses for their bad behavior.”

  Phil smiled. “Am I? Then maybe I have forgiven them after all. Hey, have you ever heard of the Names Project AIDS Memorial Quilt?”

  “Of course,” Bella told him. “We learned about it in social studies class years ago.”

  “Well, when Tony died your grandmother urged me to make a panel for the quilt.”

  “And did you?” Bella asked.

  “No. Tony was a very private person, so I wasn’t at all sure he’d want to be a part of such a public memorial. But sometimes I wish I had participated. I don’t think he would mind, not really. Not now.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late,” Bella said. “Maybe people are still making panels for the quilt. I could find out for you if you want.”

  Phil smiled. “Thank you, Bella. That would be nice.”

  “Why didn’t Mom or Grandma ever tell me any of this?”

  “Because I asked them not to talk about Tony’s illness to anyone,” Phil explained. “As far as I know, your grandparents kept their word and your mother only told your father after asking my permission. Frankly, I’m surprised the Yorktide rumor mill hasn’t let the source of Tony’s illness slip in all these years, but people in a small community can be surprisingly compassionate. They can close ranks when it’s the right thing to do.”

  “And people like you, Phil. Nobody would want to hurt you.”

  Phil laughed. “I don’t know about that!”

  “Thank you,” Bella said. “Thank you for telling me your story.”

  “And thank you, Bella, for listening. Hey, do you want to see my favorite picture of Tony?” Phil asked. “I know you’ve seen photos at my house, but this one is special to me.”

  “Sure. If it’s not too painful for you.”

  “Not anymore.” Phil took his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a small photo encased in a protective plastic covering. “This was taken not long after we came to Yorktide, back in 1981. Before he got sick.”

  Bella took the photo Phil offered. “Oh, wow,” she said. “I can see why this is special. His eyes look so soulful. He looks like a hero from some old-time romance.”

  “I know. I could never quite believe my luck, decidedly average-looking old Phil with someone so beautiful holding my hand!”

  Bella lightly swatted Phil’s arm. “Don’t say things like that. You’re a very attractive guy. You know, for someone ancient.”

  Phil laughed and put his hand to his lower back. “I’d argue about the ancient part if I could. That shipment of drapery rods was a bear to lift.”

  “You should let me do the heavy lifting, Phil,” Bella said sincerely. “I’m kind of out of shape since I quit soccer, but I’m naturally pretty strong.”

  “Like your grandfather. You know, in some ways you remind me of Steve. Good ways.”

  “Really?” Bella asked. It had never occurred to her that she might in some ways be like her grandfather, but why not? DNA was powerful stuff. “Like how?”

  “Like he had the habit—maybe he still does—of half closing his left eye when he was thinking seriously about something. You do the same thing. And you have a similar
personality. Upbeat. Energized.”

  “I used to be upbeat and energized,” Bella said. “But since the accident . . .”

  Phil smiled. “You’re coming back, Bella. I can see it.”

  “Really?” she asked. “You can?”

  “I think we all can.” Phil clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s get back to work. There are still the shelves to dust and the candles to unpack.”

  “And the new pillows to put out. People are mad for pillows, aren’t they?” Bella noted. “Especially women.”

  “It’s the coziness pillows represent. Pillows and throws. Now, let’s get busy before I talk myself into needing a nap.”

  Phil went off to reopen the store and Bella went back to unpacking the box of beeswax candles. And as she worked she thought about how much she really wanted to be the old Bella again. What fun she and her mother had had shopping at Dandelion Daze; her mother had bought a real silk blouse for three dollars and Bella had scored vintage sunglasses for six dollars. What fun it had been making ice cream with the old crank machine. What a gift it was to be trusted with someone’s secret heartbreak. And opposed to all of the good stuff happening in her life, there was Clara, trying to pull her back down into a pit of self-pity and despair. Maybe Clara wasn’t doing it consciously, but she was doing it all the same.

  Candles neatly displayed, Bella picked up the empty box and headed out behind the shop where the recycling bin was kept. What Clara was doing to her wasn’t right, she thought as she tossed the box into the bin. It just wasn’t.

  Chapter 74

  Ruby was preparing dinner for her family. Usually she found real contentment in peeling and slicing vegetables, in making classic sauces, in popping a loin of pork into the oven. But this evening, and in spite of the fact that the chicken dish she was preparing was a longtime favorite, she found no joy in concocting the savory marinade of vinegar, garlic, oregano, bay leaves, and olive oil. She had felt uneasy ever since waking that morning from a dream that had had the distinct quality of a nightmare with all the attendant feelings of fear, anxiety, and frustration. Though some of the details had faded since the morning, Ruby could still remember a good deal of it.