“Good! I’m a married man again. Magda and I finally did it, though I had to carry her kickin’ and screamin’ to the altar.”
“Good for you! Magda McCabe, huh? That’s a nice name. Listen, we’re going to my house after lunch. Is everything all right over there?”
He crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling, exasperated. “Frances, have we had this conversation before? You know I keep an eye on the house for you! How many times do I have to tell you? It could use a paint job, but we’ve talked about that. Otherwise it’s fine. You going to start living there again?”
“No, but they may. That’s why we came up to see it.”
McCabe pulled out a chair and sat down. “It’s a nice house, but if you’re going to live there, it needs work. Definitely a paint job, and the basement gets damp. I could introduce you to some people who’d do the job right and not charge too much.”
Frances finished her pizza and brushed off her hands. “Frannie is the king of Crane’s View. He knows everybody. If they’re not in his family, they used to be in his gang. He was a juvenile delinquent when he was a kid. That’s how we got to know each other: he broke into my house when he was fifteen but I happened to be there at the time.” She turned toward him. “Why don’t you go over there with us?”
“I would, but I have too much stuff to do. There’s a zoning meeting this afternoon and I gotta be there. The company that bought the Tyndall house sold it after the murder there last year. Can’t say as I blame them. Now a consortium’s sniffing around. They want to tear it down and build a hotel or something. What’s a dull little town like ours going to do with a hotel? Who’s going to stay there, Rip Van Winkle?
“Anyway, I gotta go. If you two need anything, she has my phone number. I wish you were moving back, Frances. I’d rather visit you here than down at that creepy apartment in the city.”
They kissed and we shook hands. Starting for the door, he was called back by the smirking counterman, who held out the pizza he’d ordered. McCabe grinned and went back for it.
“Is there much crime here? You mentioned a murder before.”
His smile evaporated and he stared at me before answering. “That was a one-time thing. There were a lot of extenuating circumstances. Crane’s View is a quiet town. Dull most of the time. Lotta blue-collar people here, some commuters. Everyone works hard. On the weekends they mow their lawn or watch a game. I’ve been a cop here a long time. The worst crime we have is, once in a while someone gets his car boosted. That’s all.
“Listen, I really gotta go. Ms. Hatch, I will talk to you soon. And let me know if you folks are going to move in. I’ll send some people over before you do to straighten the house up so at least it’ll be livable when you first get in.”
The counterman yodeled out, “Byyyyye, Chief!”
McCabe gave him the finger and smiled. “I don’t get no respect.” Then he was gone. I watched him get into a beautiful silver car and drive away.
“Drives a very nice car for a policeman.”
Hugh had watched too, and he nodded. “Did you see the wristwatch he was wearing? That was a Da Vinci! We’re talking about serious money for that timepiece.”
Frances shrugged. “He’s loaded. He doesn’t need to be a cop, but does it because he likes it. Made a lot of money with his first wife. Something to do with television. He told me once but I forget.”
“I like him. He’s a tough guy.” Hugh put up his fists and pretended to box.
“You do? He reminds me of one of the gangsters in Goodfellas, I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”
Frances patted my hand. “No, you wouldn’t. He’s like a Russell’s viper if you cross him. But a great friend and one of the few people you can depend on completely. Shall we go? I’m excited to see my house.”
This time Frances sat in the front seat and directed Hugh to the house. As we drove through Crane’s View, I kept imagining myself there, walking down this street, shopping at that store. Letters to us would arrive at the small gray post office at the end of Main Street. After a while, we would know the names of the men on the orange garbage truck stopped at a corner. Young kids rode bicycles in woozy lines down the sidewalk. Dogs crossed the road at their own pace. Two girls had set up a lemonade stand on one side of a tree-lined street. The sun through the leaves dappled the girls and they frowned at us when we drove by.
“Hugh, look!”
A pretty teenager was walking a bullterrier that looked like Hugh’s. The two were in no hurry. The dog sniffed something on the sidewalk, tail wagging slowly. The girl wore a Walkman and waited for him with arms crossed. She looked up as we passed and waved. Frances waved back.
“That’s Barbara Flood. Good-looking girl, huh? Her grandfather was Tyndall’s gardener. Turn right here.”
“She’s the first black person I’ve seen here.”
Frances gave Hugh a shove. “Don’t start with the liberal agenda. There are plenty of blacks in Crane’s View. The mayor is black.”
He caught my eye in the mirror and winked. “I was just making an observation.”
“Yeah, well it weighed ten pounds. This is it. Stop here.”
“This house? You’re joking.”
Frances’s voice slashed down like a karate chop. “What’s the matter with it?”
I bent forward for a better look. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just big. You said it was small. This is not a small house, Frances.”
It was blue, sort of. Blue with white trim. But the years had faded the paint to the color of a pair of old jeans. The white around the windows and door had yellowed and was peeling off everywhere. McCabe was right—the first thing it would need would be lots of paint. The house was square, shaped like a hatbox, with two floors and a large porch in front. The night before we drove there, Hugh and I had spent a whole dinner wondering what it would look like. Neither of our imaginings had come even close to this.
189 Broadway // Crane’s View, New York
“Here Hugh, you open the door. I want to take a look around.” Frances handed him keys and walked toward the porch steps. Leaning forward, she kissed the wooden newel post. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Slowly climbing, she patted the banister as she went. At the top, she reached out and pressed the doorbell. It rang loudly inside.
Hugh put his arm around my shoulder. “Did you hear that? A real bell! Ding dong!”
I quietly asked, “What do you think?”
“I like it! Reminds me of a house in an Edward Hopper painting. It’ll need a lot of work, though. I can see that already.” He put his hands on his hips and looked appraisingly at the house.
“It’s sure a lot bigger than I’d imagined. I thought it would be a kind of large bungalow.”
Frances walked to the end of the porch and stopped. Her back was to us. She didn’t turn around for the longest time.
“What’s she doing?”
“Remembering, probably. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to see what it’s like.” Hugh slotted the key and turned it in the lock a couple of times. Before pushing the door open, he slid his hand back and forth over the surface. “Nice door, huh? Oak.”
It swung open. The first odors of our new home drifted out to say hello: dust, damp, old cloth, and something in complete contrast to empty-house bouquet. Hugh entered while I stood in the doorway, trying to figure out that one smell. Clean and sweet, it was not at all appropriate in a building that had been closed and unused for years. It was fresh, delicious. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
“Miranda, are you coming?”
“In a second. Go ahead.”
I heard Hugh walk across the floor, then a door creak open. He said a quiet “Wow” to something in there, then his feet started across the floor again. What was that smell? I took a few steps into the house, looked around, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them a moment later, the hallway was full of people. Full of children, rather, with a few adults standing around watching the sho
w. Kids were running, jumping, making faces at each other, and playing. They ran back and forth from room to room, stomped up and down the staircase, ate yellow and blue cake (that was it—cake smell!), blew plastic horns, hit each other. Most wore pastel party hats. Seeing them, I realized what this was—a kid’s birthday party.
I was not surprised. I must repeat that, because it is very important. From one second to the next, Frances Hatch’s empty house was in a flash full of the happy chaos of a child’s birthday party, but none of it surprised me. I simply watched and accepted it.
One little boy in a crooked party hat stood in the middle of the hall watching the party whirl around him. He wore a white button-down shirt, stiff new blue jeans, and zebra-striped sneakers. He looked like a miniature Hugh Oakley, even to the color and texture of his long hair and the broad grin on his face. A smile I knew so well now and loved. This had to be Hugh’s boy.
He looked directly at me and did the most wonderful thing. Slowly closing his eyes, he shuddered all over. I knew it was from delight at the party around him. For it was his party, his birthday.
His name was Jack Oakley and he was eight years old. He was the son Hugh and I would have when we lived together in this house. We had already talked a lot about having children, joked about what their names would be. Jack and Ciara. Saint Ciara of Tipperary who put out fire with her prayers. And now here was our Jack Oakley standing in front of me, eight years old today, looking like his father. There was some of me in him too. The high forehead and upward curve of the eyebrows.
I didn’t move, scared if I did, this gorgeous vision of our future would go away. The boy looked at me and, still smiling, threw his small hands in the air as if they were full of confetti.
“Miranda?”
Startled, I jerked my head to the left. Hugh walked toward me, smiling just like his son. Our son. I looked back to where the boy had been standing. Everything was gone—Jack, the kids, the party.
“Are you okay?”
“We have to live here, Hugh. We have to live in this house.”
“But you haven’t even looked around yet! You haven’t moved from this spot. Come on, I’ve got to show you something.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gently pushed me along. I went but looked back once, twice, just in case Jack was there again. The little boy, our little boy, come to show us how wonderful it would be for all of us here.
6. The Tarzan Hotel
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and took a long deep breath. Thirty-four steps. After thirty-four steps I could stop and rest awhile. Just in time too because my arms were beginning to feel like pieces of chewed gum. I was holding a heavy cardboard box. Across the top was written “Sky Average.” Don’t ask what it meant because the contents of the box were Hugh’s. Already that morning I’d taken “Pontus Harmon.” “Tarzan Hotel.” “Ugly Voila,” and now “Sky Average” up to the room he would use as a study. The first time I’d seen him writing those strange phrases onto boxes in New York, I’d looked at them, at Hugh, then at the boxes again.
“Am I missing something? How do you know what’s inside?”
He capped the thick marking pen he was using and slid it into his back pocket. “I’m a mood packer. Free form. Things go in a box that connect with each other, but leave enough room for surprise when I open it again and discover what’s there.”
“So what does ‘Tarzan Hotel’ mean?”
“I made it as a kid. I took a Buster Brown shoe box, cut it up, and painted it. I was seven. I made it into a hotel for some of my favorite toys.”
“And you kept it all these years?”
“No.” He looked at me and shrugged.
“Sooo, the Tarzan Hotel isn’t in your Tarzan Hotel box?”
“No.”
“Hugh, I think we’ve left the highway here. Should I put it into four-wheel drive?”
“No. Hand me that tape, willya? The Tarzan Hotel was where I kept favorite things. So inside this box are some of my favorite things. My pocketknife collection, fountain pens, some great books. That novel you gave me – The Story of Harold. Other stuff too, but I didn’t write it down so I’ll be surprised later.”
“You’re a strange fellow, but I like you.”
Hugh had made packing up my apartment bearable. I had never liked moving. Who does? But his company and unbroken enthusiasm made the work tolerable and sometimes even fun. Frequently I would get manic and feel we had to have everything done/packed/finished in this or that period of time. He was much more relaxed about it and that mood calmed me down. Often he came to me holding some object—a lamp, a figure, a pair of German binoculars—and wanted to know the story behind the thing. He wasn’t snooping or asking me to disclose any secrets; he wanted to know me through the things I owned. Frequently I found myself telling him in long detail the story behind them and, in doing so, relaxing and pleasantly reliving past times. When both of us were exhausted and dirty, we would take a bath together and then go out for a meal. Invariably we lingered at the table talking about what life would be like in Crane’s View. And not only that. We talked endlessly about what life would be like together. One night after dinner he took a slip of paper out of his pocket and read a poem to me. I kept the paper and had it framed. I must have said the poem to myself hundreds of times over the years:
If I get to love you, please enter without knocking,
but think it over well:
my straw mattress will be yours, the dusty straw,
the rustling sighs.
Into the pitcher fresh water I’ll pour,
your shoes, before you leave, I’ll wipe clean,
no one will disturb us here,
hunched over, you could mend our clothes in peace.
If the silence is great, I will talk to you,
If you are tired, take my only chair,
If it’s warm here, loosen your collar,
take off your tie, if you are hungry,
there’s a clean sheet of paper as your plate if there’s food,
but leave some for me—I, too, am forever hungry.
If I get to love you, enter without knocking,
but think it over well:
it would hurt if you stayed away for long.
Hefting the box marked “Sky Average,” I began climbing. I couldn’t see a thing with it full in my arms, so I had to count steps as I went. I’d found that counting backward somehow made the climb easier. At step sixteen, Hugh called out from above. I kept going and had reached seven when he called again.
“Wait a minute!”
I heard his footsteps, and then the box was lifted out of my arms. Immediately I felt dizzy and almost fell backward. Grabbing the banister, I steadied myself. Hugh was climbing with the box and didn’t see what had happened. Just as well. It was the second dizzy spell I’d had that morning and it was disconcerting. We’d been working too hard.
Three days before, we’d rented a yellow Ryder truck and filled it with our belongings. When we were done, we stood on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building and looked inside. Hugh said it was unsettling to see all the possessions of two lifetimes stacked neatly in the back of a not-so-large truck. I kissed his shoulder for being diplomatic. Uptown in Charlotte’s apartment he had a whole other lifetime of belongings, which undoubtedly would have filled several trucks, but he’d made no mention of that. He was taking a lot to Crane’s View, but not so much when I knew what he could have taken.
When Charlotte heard we were moving out of the city, she flew into a flaming rage. From that day on, she did everything possible to make Hugh’s life miserable. She was good at it. In their last civil conversation before the lawyers started circling the remains, she hit him with everything she had where it hurt most. What about their marriage, his responsibilities, their children? Did he realize what this would do to them? How could he? Was he so selfish? Did he care about three other people’s lives?
“Miranda?” he stood at the top of the staircase with his hands in
his pockets, looking at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I was thinking about you and Charlotte.”
His face hardened. “Thinking what?”
“I was thinking there’s no way I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for coming here with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me; just love me.”
“I’m so afraid I’ll do it wrong, Hugh. Sometimes it feels like my heart is breaking loose because I want this to work so much. How do you love someone the right way?”
“Use plenty of butter.” He pulled his T-shirt out of his pants and over his head. He dropped it on the floor, watching me the whole time. “And no margarine. Some people try to cheat by using margarine, but you can always taste the difference.” He undid his belt and slid his jeans down.
“I thought we were supposed to be unpacking.” I crossed my arms, then dropped them to my sides.
“We are, but you asked how to love someone the right way. I’m telling you.”
“Use butter.” I began unbuttoning my shirt.
“Right.” He stood in white Jockey shorts with his hands on his hips. He wiggled a finger at me to climb the rest of the stairs to him. My shirt was open by the time I reached him. He slid his hands over my breasts. “Women will always win because they have breasts. It doesn’t matter how big they are, just the fact you have them means you’ll always win.” He pulled me slowly down to the floor.
The wood on my back was cold. I arched up into him. “Men have cocks.”
“Cocks are dumb.” He kissed my throat. “Too obvious. Breasts are art.”
I put my hand over his mouth. Slid my fingers back and forth over his tongue, then slid them out and wiped the wet across his cheek. It glistened. I kissed it. The phone rang. I put my hand between his legs and whispered, “’We’re not home right now, but leave a message. We’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve come.’”
It rang and rang. “What would you do if I answered that?” He was smiling and flinched when I squeezed him too hard.
The Marriage of Sticks Page 11