The Regrets of Cyrus Dodd

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “I heard that too,” Seth said, “but supposedly nobody was home.”

  “I know it’s probably not Ruth’s house.” Clara picked a loose thread from the sleeve of her jacket and snapped it off. “But what if it was? What if Ruth and her husband were inside and nobody knew it?”

  “Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Seth said. “We’ll likely get there and find her watching TV with her husband. What then?”

  That thought bristled through Clara’s mind. “If I find her watching TV and worrying the life out of me, I’ll let her have it in no uncertain terms!”

  Seth laughed. “What’ll you do, set fire to the house?”

  “No, but I will tell her she’s off the library committee for good!”

  The truth was Clara didn’t want either of those things to happen. What she wanted was to find a downed telephone line and Ruth apologizing for not being able to get through because the phone was out. Although she hoped such was the case, a nervous twitch had settled in her stomach.

  Clara generally met Ruth at the library, which was halfway between her apartment and Ruth’s house. She’d been to the house five, maybe six times, and although she knew the location it wasn’t something she could identify from a distance. When they turned onto Harrison Street she told Seth, “Go slow, I’m looking for number seventeen.”

  Seth slowed to a crawl. It was dark, and the house numbers were hard to see.

  “This one’s fifteen,” he said pointing to a white cape cod.

  That’s when Clara saw the burnt out shell of the Dodd house and screamed.

  “Good Lord!”

  She jumped out of the car before Seth had time to shift into park. “Get your flashlight,” she called over her shoulder and went running toward the house.

  “Ruth!” she hollered. “Ruth, are you in there?”

  Seth came up behind Clara and handed her the flashlight. Although it was obvious no one was there, she started waving the beam side to side and picking her way across the rubble toward a corner of the house that was still standing.

  “Ruth!” she screamed. “Are you in here? Answer me! Are you okay?”

  Seth followed behind her. “Nobody’s in here. A person couldn’t live through a fire like this.”

  Hearing that made Clara yell all the louder.

  Since the commotion of the night before had roused the residents of Harrison Street before dawn, most of them were already in bed and sound asleep—except Pauline Crawford. She was sitting alone in the living room imagining how it would feel to drive up and find her home in ashes. She thought of her own house and all the irreplaceable things that would be lost: family pictures, a bronzed baby shoe, hand crocheted tablecloths, birth certificates…

  At first Pauline thought it was simply her sorrow bringing Ruth’s name to her ears, but then she heard the voices. She pulled on her robe and stepped out onto the front porch. As soon as she saw the flashlight beam arcing back and forth across the rubble, she took off running.

  “Is that you, Ruth?” she called out.

  At the sound of a voice, Clara whirled around and shined the flashlight on Pauline’s face. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ruth’s friend and neighbor,” Pauline said. “Who are you?”

  “Clara Bowman. I’m her friend too, we work together on the library committee…” Her voice cracked, and she began sobbing.

  Pauline, who had a desperate need to comfort somebody who understood her grief, pulled Clara into her arms.

  “Ruth and Cyrus weren’t here when the fire broke out,” she said. “They’re away on vacation.” She explained that they were due back Tuesday evening and knew nothing of what had happened.

  “Did you try to call them?” Seth asked.

  Pauline shook her head. “Our telephone service is out, so I couldn’t. I started to go downtown and call from a pay phone, but then I figured let them enjoy these few days. There will be time enough for sorrow when they get back.”

  Seth gave a nod, as did Clara who was starting to pull herself together.

  “They’re gonna need a place to stay,” Seth said, “and clothes to wear…”

  “They’re not due back until Tuesday, and I’ve already fixed up a room that they can use,” Pauline said.

  “A room?” Clara replied. “They’re going to need more than a room.”

  That’s when Pauline suggested they go back to her house and talk.

  “I’ll make a pot of coffee,” she offered.

  It was after two when Clara and Seth started home, but by then they had a plan.

  Homecoming

  Before Cyrus opened his eyes, Ruth tried to call Pauline. Twice. Both times the line went dead. With Clara not being a morning person, Ruth waited until eight-thirty to try her number. Again there was no answer.

  She gave Cyrus’s shoulder a gentle shake. “I think we’d better go home.”

  He opened one sleepy eye. “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty-five.”

  He turned over and closed his eye. “Give me another fifteen minutes.”

  “Really, Cyrus, I think we should start home. No one is answering their phone, and my intuition tells me something is wrong.”

  Cyrus reluctantly turned back. “I suspect it’s just a power failure, but if you’re really worried—”

  “I am.”

  Claiming she was far too concerned to sit down in the restaurant and enjoy a leisurely breakfast, Ruth suggested they grab some coffee and doughnuts to go. That’s what they did, and once they were on the road they drove straight through without a single stop.

  * * *

  Thinking she had until Tuesday evening to get things done, Pauline Crawford waited until Monday to buy the boxer shorts and tee shirts for Cyrus. Early that afternoon she backed the car out of the garage and headed for town. She was rounding the corner onto Main when she spotted the Dodds’ car. Cyrus beeped the horn and waved as he turned onto Harrison Street.

  Even though it was illegal to do so, Pauline made a U-turn in the middle of Main and headed back to the house. By the time she got there Ruth was standing on the sidewalk sobbing hysterically. Cyrus had his arm around her shoulder, but he looked as if he himself had been struck by lightning.

  Pauline pulled to the curb, jumped out of the car, ran to them and folded Ruth into her arms.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, her words thick with emotion.

  Looking dumbfounded, Cyrus asked, “How’d this happen?”

  Although Pauline herself didn’t have all the answers she explained as best she could.

  “Doc Willard said a lightning bolt hit the telephone pole and traveled through the wires. He thinks a side strike ignited something inside your house.” She went on to say it happened in the middle of the night when no one was awake to notice.

  “Dear God,” Ruth said, her eyes shining with tears. “We should never have taken that vacation.”

  “It’s a good thing we did,” Cyrus said solemnly. “Not being here when the fire started probably saved our lives.”

  Ruth seemed oblivious to his words. She moved closer to where the front door should have been and saw the brass knocker lying at her feet. It was no longer shiny but blackened and twisted, barely recognizable. She bent and lifted it into her hand.

  “We’ve lost everything,” she said, her voice cracking. “Everything.”

  Cyrus again moved to her side. “Not everything. We still have each other. We’ll build a new house, replace what we’ve lost…”

  “Some things can’t be replaced. All my pictures—Joy when she was a baby, Mama and Daddy, Prudence, the locket you gave me, the quilt Aunt Rose made…”

  The memory of those things brought the flood of tears again. Cyrus tightened his arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest.

  “I know,” he said tenderly. “I know…”

  They stood there for several minutes, both locked in their own thoughts and few words passing between them. Pauline stepped forward and cur
led her arm through Ruth’s. She knew there were no words to console them for such a loss, but she had to try. She offered the only thing she could.

  “Come home with me,” she said. “Rest, have a bite to eat and give yourself time to sort things out.”

  Like a child Ruth allowed herself to be led away. Cyrus remained behind.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said.

  Once the women disappeared into the Crawford house, he waded into the ashes and began searching for the gray metal box he kept on the top shelf of the hall closet. Stepping across pieces of blackened wood and broken glass, he climbed over to where he thought the closet would have been. He grabbed what looked like part of a doorframe and poked through the rubble until he found the box. It was covered with soot but otherwise intact. He tucked it under his arm, walked down to the Crawford house and rang the doorbell. The door opened seconds later.

  “You don’t have to bother ringing the bell,” Pauline said. “For now you’re living here. I’ve got a room fixed and—”

  “Has George got a metal cutter?” Cyrus asked.

  “I’m not certain what a metal cutter looks like. Check his tool box in the basement.”

  Cyrus disappeared down the basement stairs and came back a few minutes later, smiling.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said and passed a handful of pictures to Ruth. “They were in the box with the insurance policy.”

  Ruth gave him a pale smile of gratitude as her eyes again filled with tears.

  One by one she went through the pictures, remembering the specific time and place each one was taken. The first was a snapshot of her and Prudence sitting side by side in the wicker rockers on the front porch of the Greenly house. The next one was of Joy, taken the Christmas she’d gotten a baby doll and then there was her first day of school.

  There was a picture of the three of them standing together in front of the Harrison Street house, taken the week they’d moved in. Cyrus had snapped a shot of her and Joy; then he’d seen Old Missus Gregory passing by and asked if she’d take one of all three of them. He stood in the center smiling proudly, an arm wrapped around both Joy and Ruth.

  At times the tears blurred Ruth’s vision as she continued through the pictures: Joy and Peter the day after they’d gotten engaged, a younger version of herself sitting on the steps of the farm house in Elk Bend, a youthful Cyrus holding the blue ribbon he’d won for Flossie and lastly a picture of two elderberry bushes planted side by side.

  After she’d finished looking at the pictures she turned and laid her head against his chest.

  “Oh, Cyrus,” she said tearfully, “I never realized…”

  She had more to say, much more, but it would have to wait for another day.

  Ruth Dodd

  It’s funny how you can live most of your life with a man and think you know him both inside and out. Then one day he does something that makes you realize you missed knowing the very best part of him.

  I’ve always seen Cyrus as a man who got attached to physical things—a house, a tree, a field of corn, a wooden swing—and then when they were gone he had regrets. Not a heartsick longing, just a regret that the thing he’d lost was no longer his. I never dreamed he stored up memories of all the sweet moments of our life the same way I did.

  Over the years I’ve filled album after album with pictures of everything and everybody. I had seven albums filled and another one half full. I saved pictures of everything, even the blurry ones where the top of a head was cut off or Joy was turned with her back to the camera.

  While I collected a houseful of mementos, Cyrus marked the passing of time with his own small collection of precious moments.

  After I saw what was left of our house I felt like I’d lost everything I treasured. The only thing I could foresee was a long dark road full of misery. But then Cyrus gave me that handful of pictures. It was as if he’d lit a candle of hope. There’s no question we’ve lost a lot, and I know I’ve got a thousand tears left to shed. But on the worst days, Cyrus will be there with a shoulder for me to lean on and a hankie to dry my eyes.

  Any woman with such a husband has plenty to be thankful for, and that’s what I’ll have to keep remembering.

  The Apartment

  That same afternoon Cyrus drove over to the insurance broker’s office and filled out the claim forms. Ruth, still shaken and teary eyed, stayed behind at Pauline Crawford’s house. As they sat at the kitchen table sipping cups of chamomile tea, which was supposed to calm Ruth’s nerves, Pauline explained how she’d fixed up the room and gathered an assortment of clothes to see them through.

  “The room is yours,” she said. “You can come and go as you want, and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  “Thank you,” Ruth sniffled. “It’s good to be with friends right now, but eventually Cyrus and I will have to find a place to live.”

  “That’s exactly what Clara thought you’d say.”

  A surprised look swept across Ruth’s face, and for the moment she stopped weeping. “You know Clara Bowman?”

  “I do now,” Pauline said. “She came here looking for you. Apparently she got worried when you didn’t answer your telephone. I think it had something to do with some begonias on Broad Street.”

  “Oh, dear,” Ruth said. “I have to call her. With all this going on I can’t possibly—”

  “You might want to wait until tonight or tomorrow to call. She mentioned that she’s going to be rather busy today.”

  “Busy? Doing what?”

  Pauline shrugged. “She didn’t say exactly, just that she had a lot to do.”

  Better not to say anything until we know for certain, she thought.

  * * *

  Early that morning Clara had spoken to Ross Fredericks, the building manager at the Wyattsville Arms. He’d said indeed the two-bedroom on the sixth floor was available, and, yes, he could let her friends have it for no charge for the remainder of the month. She’d left his office with a bounce in her step thinking the hard part was done, but in fact she hadn’t gotten to it yet.

  Mallard’s Furniture was the largest store in Wyattsville. It stretched out almost the full length of Plum Street and had room after room of furniture on display: bedrooms, dining rooms, living rooms, even accessories like lamps, end tables and televisions. Surely they’d be willing to lend out a few rooms of furniture for a short while, a few months at the most, especially since the Dodds would likely be coming back there to replace what they’d lost in the fire.

  The store didn’t open until ten, so Clara poured herself a cup of coffee, sat at the kitchen table and began making a list of the things they’d need.

  A sofa, two chairs and a coffee table for the living room. Beds, nightstands and dressers for the bedrooms. A dining room set, and a kitchen table and chairs. Then there were other things: lamps, dishes, cookware, towels, bedspreads and pillows, she’d almost forgotten pillows. Mallard’s didn’t carry things such as kitchenware and linens. For those she’d try Greenberg’s Home and Hearth.

  * * *

  Nina Charles had just gotten to Mallard’s and was hurrying back to shut the alarm off when the telephone started ringing. She let it ring. She had ninety seconds to punch in the disarm code, and after that the alarm would go off. It had happened twice before, and each time it was so unnerving she’d spent the day in tears.

  Furniture wasn’t a life or death purchase, and it wasn’t something a person could order over the phone. They caller would just have to wait. Or better yet, call back later.

  Clara chose to wait, and after the twenty-sixth ring Nina finally picked up.

  “Mallard’s Furniture,” she said with an air of annoyance. “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mister Mallard,” Clara replied.

  “He’s on vacation until April ninth.”

  Clara gave a sigh of disappointment. “Well, then let me speak to the store manager.

  “Mister Mallard is t
he store manager.”

  “Oh. Who’s in charge of the store when he’s not there?”

  “That would be me,” Nina replied.

  Clara launched into the long tale about the disaster that occurred in town and how they were trying to set up a temporary residence for the family to use until they could get back on their feet.

  “In time they’ll be in to buy a whole houseful of furniture,” she said, “but for now all I need is the loan of a few rooms to tide them over. I was thinking perhaps that living room in the window and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Nina cut in. “Are you asking to buy the furniture or borrow it?”

  “Borrow.”

  “I can’t do that,” Nina said flatly. “I’m a clerk. I can sell stuff but not just take it and lend it out. The store doesn’t even have a policy on that.”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Clara argued. “And you could become known as the type of store that supports the community.”

  “We’re already known for that,” Nina said, her voice taking on an air of indignation. “Mister Mallard contributes to the Boy Scouts, the Rotary Club and the JayCees.”

  Clara pleaded her case several different ways. It was the Christian thing to do. What if Nina were in their shoes? She personally knew Mister Mallard and was positive he wouldn’t mind.

  That thing about knowing him personally was a lie. Years earlier she’d bought a chair from Mister Mallard, but that’s all there was to it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Nothing changed Nina’s mind. In the end she said, “I’m not willing to lose my job over this, so you might as well give up asking.”

  Clara hung up the telephone and sat there thinking.

  A few minutes later she rapped on Olivia Doyle’s door. If anyone was willing to help, it would be Olivia.

  The minute the door swung open Clara said, “I’ve got a problem and could use some help.”