Tips for Living

by Shafransky, Renee

  I breathed in the comforting aroma of old wood. Worn pine floors. Creaky oak doors and window frames. Scratched and coffee-stained maple desks and armchairs. This was a newsroom of a bygone era, and I loved it. My eye was drawn to the framed picture of Judy and Sam on Ben’s desk. Instead of worrying about living up to Judy, I appreciated Ben’s devotion to her. For a second, I felt a twinge of concern. What would it be like to work here with Ben now that we were involved? I hoped we’d be able to navigate without too much tension.

  A stack of the Courier’s special issue, published after Abbas’s arrest, sat on my desk. The headline emblazed across the front page read:

  HUNTER’S ARROW TAKES DOWN POINT KILLER

  Courier Reporter Confronts Murderer

  I moved the stack of papers onto the filing cabinet. “Chapter closed,” I resolved. “Forever.” I’d already called Jake, the hunter, earlier and thanked him again. “If you’d hesitated, I wouldn’t be here today,” I said. He was humble about it. “I’m just glad I turned up in the right place at the right time, ma’am.”

  I sat down to work on the calendar. Glancing through the window, I noticed Lizzie on the other side of the street wearing her army jacket and a boiled wool hat from Afghanistan. She was speaking to a woman bundled up in black in front of Eden’s Coffee Shop. The two of them turned and began to cross directly toward the Courier building. I stood up when I recognized the woman with Lizzie was Helene’s sister.

  They reached the building entrance on the left and I couldn’t see them from the window anymore. The outer door creaked. Then the Courier office door opened and Lizzie scurried in from the cold.

  “Hey, Nora! You’re back! Great. I didn’t think anyone would be in today.”

  “Wasn’t that Margaret Westing who just walked across the street with you?”

  “The very one.” Lizzie set her camera bag on her desk and plunked down in her chair. “I went to Eden’s for breakfast and saw this woman I recognized from the funeral having coffee at the counter. I sat next to her and introduced myself. She was here to pick up some of her sister’s belongings. Get this: she’s applying for guardianship of Callie Walker.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  From what I’d heard at the funeral, I didn’t think Margaret wanted Callie for the money. I had the impression Margaret really cared for her niece.

  “That’s great. She’d be a whole lot better than Ruth and Tobias. Only, it’s going to be a tough win for a single woman coming up against a family for guardianship. But if she pulls it off, it could save that kid’s life.”

  On my darkest days, I’d been saved by the love of an aunt.

  “Right,” Lizzie said, getting up and walking over to the Mr. Coffee machine. “Here’s the thing: Tobias Walker is in deep trouble with the IRS. He’s about to be charged with fraud. His ‘nonprofit educational’ Fund for the American Family gave oodles of money illegally to political candidates with religious agendas. So, the court might not look too kindly on him as a responsible, ethical parenting option.”

  “Margaret told you that?”

  “Crawley did. He said the cops had been looking into Tobias since the beginning of the murder investigation.” She picked up the coffee carafe, carried it to the water cooler and began filling it. “I bring Crawley doughnuts when he’s parked at those speed traps, so he gives me some pretty good tips.”

  I could learn a few things from this girl.

  “You know, you’re an excellent reporter, Lizzie. In case I haven’t mentioned it.”

  “Thanks.” She beamed. “You want coffee?”

  “Nope. I’m off caffeine,” I said.

  The Coop was filled with the mouthwatering smells of the feast that Grace and I prepared together: turkey and gravy with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole and green beans with pearl onions. It was also full of the people I treasured. Ben. Grace, Mac and the kids. Aunt Lada. She’d gotten the okay from her doctor to celebrate with us as long as she took it easy. Ben and I picked her up in his Rover, along with her wheelchair. “She won’t need it for long,” her cardiologist said. “She’s recovering beautifully.”

  There were also guests I looked forward to knowing better. Like young Sam. Also, my neighbors, Jack Mance and his boyfriend, David. They wanted to check on their house, so I invited them. The police had located Jack’s stolen gun the day before. It turned up in a botched gang robbery at the Massamat Pizzeria. “Now there’s a story for the Courier,” Jack said.

  We were about to sit down to our meal when I remembered that in the bustle and prep of the holiday, I’d forgotten to take my pill. I excused myself and sneaked off to the bathroom. “Take one pill every morning, just before breakfast,” Dr. Patel had instructed.

  I reached into the medicine cabinet and removed the high-dose magnesium supplements Dr. Patel prescribed, filled a glass with water and then examined myself in the mirror. I looked rested for the first time in months. My skin was in great shape, the scratch under my eye barely visible. I placed the bottle back in the cabinet, turned toward the tub and popped the horse-size pill in my mouth. As I drank the water, I watched the light play on the snow-covered field through the window and listened to the voices rising and falling in my living room. The laughter.

  The afternoon sun was reflecting strongly off something outside directly under the window, flashing sparks of light on the glass. I leaned over the tub awkwardly to see exactly what it was. Near the Coop’s foundation, half buried in snow, my hand hoe lay next to a pile of dead rose branches and a burlap bag emptied of daffodil bulbs. The hoe’s silver tip was glinting in the sunlight.

  I touched my cheek. The scratch. That was where I’d gotten the scratch. I must’ve ripped out the dead, thorny branches and planted the bulbs during one of my sleepwalking episodes. A twig and leaves had stuck to my hair and clothing. I’d knelt right there by the light of the moon and dug holes with my hoe. I smiled to myself. There would be blooms in the spring after all.

  Maybe this was a sign. Should I ask Jack Mance if he was willing to sell the Coop? I could make a bid with the sketchbook money. Despite the Coop’s flaws, I was fond of it, and I’d already put down roots. It looked like there’d be a windfall—enough to pay for a renovation.

  As I straightened up, I saw him standing in the field midway between the Coop and the forest. The wind was blowing sprays of snow from the ground into swirls of powder around him. His noble head was lifted, nose to the sky. Long whiskers graced his muzzle. His rack was high and wide, his chest massive and his waist almost as big, giving him the shape of a small cow. He was the oldest buck I’d ever seen.

  “How have you lasted through such cold, harsh winters and with so little food?” I wanted to ask him. “How have you escaped the hunters? Avoided getting hit by a car? How have you survived this long? Dealt with your losses and traumas? Do you have any tips for living? You must have tips.”

  He turned his head toward me, tilted it and shook his antlers as if to say, “Lady, I’m a deer,” as the rest of them approached.

  They came out of the forest one by one, walking slowly in a line. All shapes and sizes. Fawns, does, yearlings and younger bucks. They stopped and gathered around him for a moment, protecting each other from the wind, steam rising off their warm bodies. Then they began to move back toward the forest, forming their line again with the old buck at the head. They walked into the woods with their white tails flashing in the last of the light.

  “Nora, come on! We’re hungry!” Ben called out from the living room.

  They were all out there. Waiting. And they weren’t going to start without me.

  From the Pequod Courier

  Tips for Living

  by Nora Glasser

  Aunt Lada’s Advice

  Do the best you can. Give it your all.

  And if things don’t come out well the first time, try again.

  As the Russians like to say: “The first pancake is always a blob.”


  And, furthermore, “She who takes no risks, never gets to drink champagne.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to all the readers, advisers and encouragers who helped bring Tips into the world, starting with my elementary school librarian, Mrs. Walker. She sat me down with magical books and a safe space to read. Lucy Childs, my supersmart and determined agent, never stopped pushing to make Tips a better book. Melanie Fleishman provided wise editorial input and unceasing support. Susan Scarf Merrell read the first draft and left the “go, go, go, go, go!” voice mail that spurred me on. Bettina Volz and Libby McGuire cheered, too. Mary Corey prompted the addition of a crucial ingredient. Susan Dalsimer gave invaluable notes and confidence. Florence Falk gave me faith. For decades.

  Special thanks to the aces at Lake Union, starting with the wonderful Liz Pearsons, who fell for Tips. She has been a constant ally and advocate. Tiffany Yates Martin: working with you was my grad school. Also thanks to the great communicator Gabrielle Dumpit, and to Kimberly Glyder for her inspired design.

  A shout-out to the late, great Nora Ephron, who told me I should write books. To Cis Wilson, Steve Molton, Pamela Galvin, Annette Chandler, Will Chandler and Vicki Polon for their friendship throughout. To Marcelle Tosi and the team at Miracle Management for their support and enthusiasm. To Geoffrey Nimmer for the “cedar” talk. To Dr. Karen Langone for enabling me to walk out ideas. To my beloved dog, Hitchcock, who comes along on the walks when he’s not sitting patiently in my office waiting for me to return to reality and give him treats. And to my clients, who continue to show me what courage it takes to heal and go on to thrive.

  But most of all I want to thank my wonderful partner, Nick Gazzolo, who inspires, supports, applauds, advises and brings coffees and laughter at just the right moments. Nick makes everything better. Always.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 Nicholas Gazzolo

  Renée Shafransky is a writer and psychotherapist. Her articles and essays have appeared in various publications including the Village Voice, Condé Nast Traveler, and the Southampton Review. She has written screenplays for major motion picture studios and teleplays for HBO and PBS, working with renowned directors such as Harold Ramis. Previously married to actor and writer Spalding Gray, Ms. Shafransky produced the acclaimed film of his monologue, Swimming to Cambodia, directed by Jonathan Demme. She currently practices as a psychotherapist in New York City and Sag Harbor, where she makes her home with her partner, Nick, and her dog, Hitchcock. Tips for Living is her first novel.