The Land of Mango Sunsets

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  I could hear Kevin’s boom box streaming Latin music from the second floor. He must’ve been working on Mr. O’Hara’s apartment. It sounded like Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66. How festive! Only Kevin would have the presence of mind to turn an act of drudgery into something worth dancing through.

  After several phone calls and polite warnings that I would be forced to place his personal things in storage, Mr. O’Hara’s family rented a small van, drove in from Oyster Bay, and claimed his property. As each day went by, I became more anxious to rent the space. After all, I had obligations to meet just like the rest of the world.

  I opened the door to my apartment. Harry was sitting on the arm of my aging red-striped chintz sofa looking at me.

  “Hi, Harry, my little feathered friend!” I said, throwing my damp coat over a club chair that had seen better days. “It’s cold outside. And it’s snowing again!”

  He cocked his head to one side and stared at me.

  “Charles is a horse’s ass.”

  “Yes, he certainly is and Miriam loves Harry.”

  “I love you. Pretty Miriam!” Harry said, and whistled.

  Of course I had trained Harry to say all the sweet things he said, but it still sounded nice, even if the flattery came from a bird. Unfortunately, Harry’s words represented the vast majority of the compliments I received. I gave him three grapes as a treat. Organic, of course. Sometimes I thought Harry enjoyed a better diet than I did, except that I really had made an effort to buy organic when I could, another testament to my mother’s power of suggestion.

  “Come on, pussycat, let’s go see what Kevin’s up to.”

  He hopped on my fingers, we made our way up the stairs and swung open the door to Mr. O’Hara’s apartment.

  “It’s just me, Mr. O’Hara!” Harry said, sounding exactly like me.

  “Harry misses Mr. O’Hara,” I said, and then realized that part of the far wall was an odd shade of green and that the window trim was some kind of orange. Kevin was wearing presplattered painter’s overalls with a tight T-shirt underneath that accentuated his biceps. “What have you done here, Kevin?”

  “Didn’t you read Hop Along the obituary? Missed the memo, did you, Romeo?” Kevin turned the music down and his attention to me. “It’s part of the plan, Miriam! So what do you think?”

  “About the colors? Well…it’s different, isn’t it?” I let Harry down to walk around.

  “It’s very Key West…”

  A Key West whorehouse, I thought. “Yes, it is,” I said.

  “Papaya and avocado and I’m thinking a splash of turquoise also—you know, just in bits of trim here and there to give it some pop…” Kevin’s arms were flailing about as he justified his foray into the world of tropical psychedelic color.

  “Who are we renting to, Kevin? What if they want beige walls? What if we rent to, I don’t know…I mean, would a certified public accountant want to live with these colors?”

  Kevin put his hands on his hips and stared at me in annoyance. “If they want beige, they can live somewhere else! I have made an executive decision, Miriam.”

  I didn’t want to anger him because he had gone to a lot of trouble, so I said, “And what would that be, sweetums?”

  “We’re going to rent to someone who is younger than us. No more dead bodies. We need fun in our lives, girlie. And, in this house.”

  He was right about that and I agreed with him.

  “Any potential tenants yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m actually seeing someone this afternoon at four.”

  “And who might this mysterious person be?”

  “I’m not sure. He was an acquaintance of Mr. O’Hara, but I don’t know anything about him, to tell you the truth.”

  “Miriam? You worry me. Just like that, you’re going to let this man in your house? Our house?”

  “Why, I hadn’t even thought—”

  “Honestly! We could wind up sliced and diced into sushi on Live at Five! It’s a good thing I’m home. I’ll be in your kitchen making dinner in case anything seems peculiar to you, okay?”

  “Well, he didn’t sound like someone who would appreciate your handiwork anyway. These colors, I mean…”

  “It’s going to be very chic when I’m finished. Miriam? Sugar, I’m going to tell you something…” Kevin poured more fruit smoothie into his paint tray and ran his roller through it, squeezing away the excess.

  “What’s that?” I said, and Harry hopped back on my hand. I stroked his feathers.

  He rested the tray and roller on the windowsill and leaned back against it, crossed his arms over his chest, and took a deep breath. I sensed an approaching lecture.

  “You seem so somber, Kevin! What are you worried about?”

  “Nothing! No, nothing at all, really! It’s just that…look, Miriam. You have a fabulous apartment to offer. The kitchen is good, the bathroom is great—a big bedroom and living room, good light…”

  “I’m aware. The point?”

  “That it’s also a privilege to live here. This is a very smart address, Petal, and you know it. Let’s be a little picky, okay?”

  “Promise. I will. I’ve got to go call Mother. Tell her we’re wearing sweaters and that we’ve got food—”

  “I don’t want to sound like Fred Mertz here. But, raise the rent, Ethel.”

  “Seriously? Yours, too?”

  “Have you gone mad? No! The new tenant’s!”

  “Kevin, you know me. I think the quality of the tenant is just as important as the rent.”

  “Fabulous. When the furnace poops out, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

  “You’re probably right,” I said to placate him, and went to the door. “See you at four?”

  “I smell condescension…”

  “See you later. And, Kevin?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.” I blew him a kiss and closed the door.

  He was right about the furnace. At five o’clock in the morning, when it switched to its day cycle, it sounded like someone was crawling around inside the walls with a sledgehammer. It had been repaired and repaired, and soon it was going to expire. I knew it. Maybe I should consider raising the rent. I wasn’t even sure what the going rate was for a one-bedroom apartment in my neighborhood.

  “What are we going to do, Harry?” I said as I closed the door to my apartment behind me. “Perch?”

  “Perch?”

  “Okay, handsome.” I put him on his perch in the kitchen and dialed my mother.

  She picked up on the fourth ring, just as the recorded message on her answering machine was giving instructions.

  “Hello?”

  “Mother?”

  If you’re selling something, we don’t want it…

  “Let me turn this crazy thing off, Miriam. Hold on!”

  If you want us to answer questions, forget it…

  I heard something tumble and fall and then in the muffled distance of mother’s efforts to quiet the offending machine, she said something like “dag blast it all to Hades!” Mother invented her own curse words, or like we say in the south, cusswords. To say curse is to actually curse and therefore ladies say cuss.

  If you want…beep!

  “All righty now! That’s much better! Miriam? Are you still there?”

  “Josie, Josie, Josie. That message of yours is pretty aggressive, don’t you think?”

  “That’s Miss Josie to you, and no, it’s not. If you knew all the fool phone calls I get…mol-asses!”

  Read: Those asses!

  “I’m sure that’s so. So, Mother?”

  “It’s sixty degrees in South Carolina today and I can’t for the life of me understand why you aren’t here to enjoy it.”

  Mother always just jumped in and started telling me what was on her mind. She did this as though it was her duty to start up a conversation with a little dressing-down.

  “Because then I wouldn’t be here to attend Mr. O’Hara’s funeral.”

&nbs
p; “He died?”

  “He sure did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, really, Mother. What would you have done?”

  “Well, I would’ve sent a card or something…how did he go?”

  Mother had a morbid fascination with the final exits of others.

  “He took the Fifty-seventh Street bus to paradise.”

  “Don’t be cute with me, missy, or I’ll cut a switch and come right to New York!”

  I had to giggle at that. I could see her stripping the leaves from a thin branch and stuffing it in her tote bag. “No, seriously. He really did. He died on the bus. Heart attack.”

  “Mercy. Now what?”

  “We cleaned out the apartment, Kevin is painting like crazy, and I’m interviewing a new tenant this afternoon. The snow seems to have stopped, so that’s good. Maybe he won’t cancel.” I pulled back the window sheers and double-checked. A few flakes were coming down, but when I spotted a slice of blue sky I decided that they were from a roof or a branch, caught in a swirl of wind.

  “He? Another man? Is this one a possibility for, you know…”

  “Good grief! No! The last thing I need in my life is another man.”

  After all, but I wasn’t bringing this up to her, I had married one and given birth to two more and somehow lost the affection of them all. It didn’t matter what I left unsaid, my mother had an invisible umbilical cord from her brain to mine.

  “Don’t fret, Miriam. You are still their mother, and believe me, the boys will come around. As for you and men? People are not meant to be alone. You still have plenty of vitality left in you. Heaven knows, if I do, then you must!”

  “Yes, but you’re an original, Miss Josie.”

  “Oh, sure! Butter me up so I’ll talk about something else.”

  “No. You really are. Besides, I’m not lonely. Anyway, no matter, Kevin thinks we should rent to a young person.”

  “Because Kevin knows you’ve become a dullard. A drip. B-o-r-i-n-g! And Kevin knows you need something to get your motor going…”

  “I have to go, Mother. The doorbell is ringing.”

  “I don’t hear anything. Maybe it sounds like that bird of yours is imitating the doorbell.”

  Busted.

  “Well, he is, but the real one is ringing, too. I’ll call you later this week, okay?” I hung up and looked at Harry. “Work on your doorbell voice, okay?”

  “You got it!”

  When I opened the door, there stood Kevin loaded with grocery bags, and beside him was a very nice-looking middle-aged man. I felt my neck get warm.

  “Mrs. Swanson?”

  “Yes. Won’t you come in?”

  Well, I don’t have to tell you that I thought he was perfect for the apartment. He chuckled when he saw the color of the walls and said he would repaint them at his own expense. Then I saw him staring at my legs. Kevin saw him staring, too, and I could tell from Kevin’s bristling body language that he didn’t like him at all. I took a deposit check and his cell-phone number and told him I would keep his check, that I had two other possible candidates to see on Monday, and that I would let him know. But I’ll admit, I did practically let him think the place was his.

  Kevin was furious with me.

  “Why didn’t you just give him the keys?” he said sarcastically as he drained the pasta into my sink.

  “Very funny. Do you want a glass of Chianti?”

  “Already poured one for myself. Harry and I have been in here praying that guy didn’t do something terrible to all of us. I couldn’t wait to hear the door close! Harry kept saying ‘Good night! Good night!’”

  “So that’s why he’s in his cage?”

  “Yes! Even Harry had the good sense to worry!”

  I poured myself a glass and looked at the kitchen table. It was simply but beautifully set for dinner with a cut baguette, wrapped in linen and placed in a sweetgrass basket from Charleston. Crystal goblets reflected the light of the candles borrowed from my living-room mantel; a glistening salad of butter lettuce and tomatoes, grated Parmesan and olive oil, tiny dishes of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper all waited at attention; and my silver pitcher was frosted from the ice water it held.

  How could I not value Kevin’s opinion? This was what he did. He went to great lengths to be sure everything was as lovely as it could be. So did I, most of the time, but the difference was that he did it with some innate joy as opposed to my joyless sense of duty.

  That was me. If he had not set this glorious table I probably would have jumped down Kevin’s throat and told him he was wrong about the man I had interviewed and I would have just ignored Kevin’s instincts. Whether it was my family, my waning volunteer career, or a new tenant, I had to be right, have the last word. My way or no way. Maybe this was one of the rules that needed to be broken, one of the things I needed to change. In a rare instance of détente, I conceded the point and decided to let Kevin have his way.

  “Okay. You and Harry win. I give up. What do y’all think I should do?”

  The tiniest of victorious smiles crossed his face as he plated our dinner.

  “Give me his check,” he said. “You know me. I’m not usually so suspicious about people, but something about him—no, everything about him—was inappropriate. I’ll have my friend in human resources run a background check on him.”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  Kevin looked down his nose at me with raised eyebrows, challenging my sincerity.

  “No! I said fine and I meant it! Now let’s eat.”

  Chapter Three

  THE CANDIDATES

  I put a crisp five-dollar bill in the envelope and sponge-sealed it. Did twelve-year-old boys eat ice cream in the dead of winter? My sons would have eaten ice cream at three in the morning any time of the year. Oh, who knows? The little varmint next door would probably spend it on a ball of crack, I thought. In the next moment, I had an ever-so-fleeting pang of guilt when the mental image I had of said varmint included freckles on his little nose and braces on his teeth. Well, it was enough that I had recognized his good deed, and if I did truly contribute to a drug habit it would not have been my intention. Or problem.

  I had bigger fish to fry, as Mother liked to say.

  I had scheduled an interview with a lady from Ohio or Pennsylvania at eleven and then another young woman was to stop by at four. Both had references and both sounded very nice on the phone. The lady from Ohio (or was it Pennsylvania?)—Jean, I think—was a client of my hairdresser. The other gal was the friend of Irene Waddlesnotte’s niece—a most unfortunate family name. Originally from Alabama, I thought she had said. I’ll admit that my anxiety was growing. I wanted a tenant in that apartment and the money in my account.

  It was ten-thirty. The New York Times crossword puzzle was completed (there was nothing quite so uplifting as a Monday puzzle), Harry was fed, the house was clean, the fireplace was crackling with another log of imitation wood, and I was dressed for the day. Even though I wasn’t necessarily going anywhere, I made it my habit to shower and dress nicely each day. I mean, maybe Charles’s home-wrecking vamp, Judith, might get hit by a truck or a taxi and I could be called on to identify her mangled body. What a cheery thought! I decided to write a note and make tea.

  Dear Robby,

  This is just a little note to say how much I appreciate that you shoveled my steps and sprinkled salt on my snowy sidewalk. This winter has been particularly harsh and it is so kind of you to think of your neighbors. Your mother must be very proud to have such a fine young man as her son most definitely is. Please accept this small token of my gratitude and treat yourself to an ice cream cone!

  Cordially,

  Miriam Elizabeth Swanson

  I put the kettle on to boil and placed cups and saucers on a tray with spoons, napkins, and a plate for some cookies. I spooned two heaping teaspoons of loose Irish Breakfast tea leaves in my favorite teapot. I used milk in my tea, but what if my visitor had a preference for honey a
nd lemon? Well, guess what? I didn’t have any lemons, so that was just too bad for her. And honey? Too messy. The only reason I was serving tea was to have the time to grill her about her life and past. I had taken Kevin’s paranoia to heart and my intention was to find out everything I could before I signed a lease with anyone.

  By the time the doorbell rang, I realized I had worked myself into an unpleasant state of crankiness. As you know, I deeply resented having to rely on paying strangers under my own roof in order to afford my home. The other, and perhaps more shameful, part was that my world had become so small that I hoped my new tenant would also be a friend. If my tenants were my friends, then I wouldn’t have to hate their presence as much.

  I buzzed her in, went to my front door, and opened it.

  “I’m Miriam Swanson,” I said, extending my hand. “Won’t you come in?” She was attractive in a coarse kind of way. Overprocessed hair worn in a style too long for her age, too much décolleté exposed for daytime…

  “Thank you.” We shook hands. “I’m Jean Waring.”

  Nails obviously fake…

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Jean. May I take your coat?”

  Cashmere? Who bought that for her?

  “Thank you.”

  She handed it to me and stood with her back to the fireplace. I folded it neatly and placed it on the arm of my sofa.

  “Gosh! It’s so cold outside! Isn’t this weather unusual? I can’t recall winter being quite so nasty and cold.”

  I nodded and said, “Won’t you sit down?” I indicated the wingback chair next to the fireplace for her and I would sit opposite her in the club chair. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, yes! That would be lovely!”

  “Yes, it is unusually cold this year.” I poured a cup for her. “Milk?” I poured another cup for myself and added milk.

  “Oh, no. Just plain tea is fine. Anything hot…”

  I put a cookie on the side of her saucer and handed it to her. “Anything with caffeine, I always say. Keeps me going! So, now, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

  “I agree. Thank you! Well, I’m from Pennsylvania. Near Philadelphia.”