Just as expected Olivia invited her in and poured them each a cup of coffee. It was Clara’s fourth of the day, and she was already feeling jittery. She retold the story or what by now had become a shorter version of it.
“You remember that settee you had before the sewing room became Ethan Allen’s bedroom? Do you still have it?”
“It’s downstairs in storage, and you’d be welcome to it,” Olivia answered. She said she also had two lamps, an end table and a club chair, all of which Clara was free to take.
“Unless I’m mistaken, I think Seth Porter might have a desk and a sofa down there also,” Olivia added.
After Seth Porter, Clara visited Cathy Contino. Although Cathy didn’t have any furniture in the storage room, she did have an extra set of dishes she was willing to part with.
By late afternoon Clara had gathered bits and pieces of furnishings but not nearly enough to set up the apartment in a livable manner. Feeling somewhat discouraged, she returned to Olivia’s apartment and rapped on the door a second time.
“If you’ve got any more of that coffee, I could use a cup,” she said.
Olivia made a fresh pot, and they sat at the kitchen table.
“This is a lot harder than I thought it would be,” Clara said. “I’ve asked seven people here in the building and everyone contributed something, but it’s taken all afternoon.”
She gulped the full cup of coffee, pushed her cup forward and said she wouldn’t mind having another. As Olivia was refilling the cup she noticed how fast Clara was blinking and her fingers kept picking at the loose thread on her sweater.
“Do you think maybe you’re drinking too much coffee?” she asked.
“I have to keep my energy up. I’m nowhere near done; there’s sixty-one more residents and I was hoping to have the apartment set up by Friday.”
“That’s only four days!”
“I know,” Clara replied and drained the cup. “I’d better get back to work.”
“You’re going about this all wrong,” Olivia said. “You’ve got to get everyone together and ask them all at one time.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re president of the building association. Call a meeting.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Why not?” Olivia asked. “You did it when Jim Turner threatened to evict me because I had Jubilee and Paul living here. Is this so very different?”
“Well, sure it is.” Clara hesitated. “Isn’t it?”
“Not really. It’s neighbors helping one another, and that’s what makes this building so special.”
Clara sat for a few moments longer, thinking it over.
“I’ll help,” Olivia said. “We’ll make a list of things you’ve already collected and tell people what else is needed. I’ll take notes so we know who’s contributing what.”
The more they talked, the more a preposterous idea became a logical conclusion.
As Clara began listing the items she’d already collected, Olivia lettered a sign saying there would be a special meeting at 7PM in the downstairs recreation room. “Be sure to be there, or you’ll miss the excitement!” she wrote as an afterthought. She taped the sign to the wall of the elevator, right above the buttons where it couldn’t be missed. By the time she returned to the apartment, Clara had finished both the list and that last cup of coffee.
“No more for you,” Olivia said and poured the remainder of the coffee down the drain. “We’ll need something more substantial to get us through this evening.”
By six-fifteen Olivia had whipped up a quick supper of ham and eggs. She set the three plates on the table and called for Ethan Allen to come and eat. Seconds later he was there.
“Did you wash your hands?” she asked.
He grinned. “Sort of.”
As she scooped a helping of scrambled eggs onto each plate she said, “Wash them here at the sink, and be quick about it.”
Ethan Allen did as asked, but washing consisted of little more than sliding both hands beneath the stream of water then wiping them on the towel.
“How come we’re having breakfast for dinner?” he asked.
“Because we’re in a hurry. There’s an association meeting.”
“Can I come?”
“No,” Clara and Olivia replied in unison.
Ethan Allen piled a scoop of eggs onto a piece of ham and shoved it into his mouth. “Why not?”
“Because this one’s important,” Clara said. “We’re asking people to contribute things for a family whose house burned down.”
“I could help out,” Ethan offered.
“If you really want to help out,” Olivia replied, “then you could pick up some of the donations and cart them up to the empty apartment on the sixth floor.”
“Twenty-five cents a load?”
Olivia gave him an unblinking stare. “This is the same as when the residents all chipped in and bought you that new bicycle.”
After living with her for a year, Ethan Allen had come to understand the expressions on his new grandmother’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll do it for free.”
That evening at about the same time as the Crawfords and Dodds were sitting down to dinner, Clara began pounding her gavel against the wooden table at the front of the meeting room and calling for order. When the chatter continued, she gave a loud two-fingered whistle.
“Quiet!” she shouted, and the room stilled.
“I called this special meeting to ask for your help—”
Eloise Fromm raised her hand in the air and started speaking even though she hadn’t been called on.
“I assume this is not an official meeting,” she said sharply, “because a sign posted in the elevator can hardly be considered official notification.”
“Plus there’s no coffee,” Fred Wiskowski added. “The association is supposed to have coffee at the meetings and—”
Clara cut in. “You’re right. This is not an official meeting.”
“I was in the middle of watching the Huntley-Brinkley report,” Herb Walker grumbled. “If it’s not official, I’m out of here.” He pushed through the crowd and edged his way towards the door at the rear of the room.
“It’s not official,” Clara boomed, “but it’s important!”
Herb stopped and turned back. “Okay, but make it quick.”
“Everyone here has seen the news about the house that burned down, right?” Without waiting for an answer Clara continued. “That family lost everything. Their house, their furniture, even their clothes. In time they’ll be able to rebuild, but until then they need a place to call home.”
“There’s a two-bedroom for rent on the sixth floor,” Agnes Shapiro hollered.
Clara grinned. “That’s what I had in mind, but they’ll need to borrow some furniture for a while, just until they have a chance to settle down and shop for their own.”
A hand went up, and Clara nodded. Olivia stood and turned to face the crowd.
“Clara’s already got commitments for a number of things,” she said and read down the list. “But there’s a number of other things we still need. A bed and dresser for instance.”
Donald Chasen, who was as tight-fisted as they come, hollered, “If these people are too poor to buy furniture, how they gonna pay the rent?”
“The Dodd family is not poor,” Olivia said, “but they are sick at heart. They need to know somebody cares.”
“Why does it have to be us?” Chasen replied.
Clara banged her gavel on the table. “Sit down, Donald! You haven’t been recognized, so you’re out of order!”
He muttered something about it not being an official meeting anyway so he shouldn’t have to go by the rules, and then sat.
Clara seized the opportunity. “Ruth Dodd didn’t ask ‘why me’ all these years she’s cared for the begonias on Broad Street! She didn’t ask ‘why me’ when she collected books for the library or when she crocheted hat
s for all those newborn babies she’s never seen and never will. She does things for the community without asking for anything in return. Have we become so isolated that we are willing to do less?”
There was a long minute of silence; then Albert Hurst raised his hand and stood.
“They can have the bedroom set in my guest room,” he said. “It’s been ten years since Al Junior’s come to visit, so I guess it’s safe to assume he ain’t coming any time soon.”
One by one the residents started offering things to help. Barbara Conklin volunteered a set of cookware. Then came carpets, bedspreads, a vacuum, a toaster. George Hinkle even suggested that if the husband was a bowler, he had a second ball he’d be willing to part with. When the offers slowed down to a trickle, Clara announced that she’d be posting a list of the supporters in the building recreation room so that everyone could acknowledge the generosity of such good neighbors.
Almost immediately a handful of stragglers raised their hands. Louise Ferrety said they were welcome to make use of her television since she’d taken up reading and stopped watching it anyway.
“Right now I’m reading Mister Tolstoy’s War and Peace,” she said, “but I’m only up to page forty-seven.”
Even tight-fisted Donald Chasen contributed a brand new, never-before-used coffee pot. Before the meeting ended Clara had the apartment fully furnished.
“To celebrate such wonderful community spirit, there will be a welcoming party here in the recreation room Friday evening.”
She rapped the gavel one last time and ended the meeting.
The Move
On Tuesday morning Ruth telephoned Clara.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner, but under the circumstances…” She left the remainder of the thought hanging in the air because it was just too painful to talk about.
“I came by Sunday evening and saw what happened,” Clara volunteered.
“Well, then, you understand I can’t possibly do Broad Street. Pauline has been wonderful about letting us stay here, but I need to find a place of our own and—”
“No, you don’t,” Clara replied. “I’ve got one for you.”
“Oh, Clara, that’s so kind.” Ruth’s words had the sound of heartbreak threaded through them. “But we can’t stay there with you either. We’ve got to—”
“Not with me,” she cut in. “It’s an apartment here in the building.”
“As much as I love your building, it won’t work. We need a furnished place.”
“It is furnished.”
“In your building? But I thought—”
“It’s the only one,” Clara said, “so I told them to hold it for you.”
Ruth’s tone grew a bit more upbeat. “Can I come over to see it?”
Knowing that only half of the furniture had been moved into place and the floors were piled high with cartons of stuff to go into the kitchen cupboards, Clara said, “It won’t be available until Friday, but you’ll be able to move in that afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“It’s exactly like mine,” Clara said reassuringly. “Except it’s got a green sofa, and the kitchen’s yellow.”
“I like yellow,” Ruth replied.
“I know,” Clara said.
* * *
That afternoon Ruth and Cyrus went back to the house hoping to find a few remnants of the life they’d once loved. Poking through piles of ash and soot, Cyrus uncovered an iron skillet they’d brought from the Greenly house. Ruth found a ceramic bud vase still standing on the kitchen windowsill. It was covered with soot but otherwise intact.
A handful of things were salvageable: the drawer of dishtowels, wet and smelling of smoke, but washable; two of the eight dinner plates that once belonged to Prudence; a cream pitcher with no sugar bowl. After nearly two hours they left with a small carton of odds and ends, but Ruth considered each one something to be cherished.
The realization of all that was lost settled on them in bits and pieces. One moment it would be like a bad dream from which they would soon wake. The next Ruth would remember some small treasure and burst into tears.
“I loved that potholder Joy made in summer camp,” she’d say tearfully.
When the melancholy became overwhelming, Cyrus would take her in his arms and promise to make it better. It was as it was back in Elk Bend, a promise he could only hope to keep.
As one day turned into the next, he came to accept the things he’d taken for granted were no more. Once that was fixed in his mind, even the simplest task such as redirecting the mail brought forth a flood of regrets. He was standing in line at the post office when tears suddenly overflowed his eyes.
The woman in front of him turned. “Are you okay?”
Cyrus nodded and brushed back the tears with his forearm.
“I’m fine,” he said, but his words had the same mournful sound he’d heard in Ruth’s voice.
“If you’re sick I’ll take you to the doctor.”
“No, no,” Cyrus said. “I’m fine. We just lost our house in a fire—”
“Was yours the house that burnt the night of the storm?”
He gave a weary nod. “Afraid so.”
“Good grief! You’ve got enough trouble without standing in line to tell a postman where to deliver your mail!” She took Cyrus by the hand and brushed past the four people in front of them.
“Excuse me,” she said, “let’s show some consideration here!” She tugged him to the front desk and insisted the postmaster take care of him first.
Before returning to her place in the line she hugged Cyrus and said he should take care of himself. By then he was feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Okay,” he answered.
* * *
Clara called the Crawford house early Friday morning. Once Ruth was on the line she said, “Today’s the day!”
“I know,” Ruth replied, “and I’m looking forward to it.”
“Try and get here sometime between two and three,” Clara suggested. “That will give you time to settle in before the party.”
“Party?”
“Not a party kind of party, just a get-together so you and Cyrus can meet some of your neighbors.”
A hint of happiness slid into Ruth’s voice. “That sounds wonderful.”
After lunch Ruth packed the few things they had into the suitcase. She included several of the outfits Pauline had placed in the closet, but Cyrus flatly refused to take any of the things from Frank Blanchard.
“I am not going to walk around town in another man’s trousers,” he said. “I’m fine with what I’ve got.”
“All you’ve got are two pairs of trousers and a bag of dirty laundry.”
“It’s enough for now.”
“Suit yourself.” She closed the lid of the suitcase and set it at the door.
They arrived at the Wyattsville Arms a few minutes before three. Cyrus pulled into the parking lot and, seeing the spaces were numbered, circled around to the side of the building and parked in the area marked “Guests.” After he’d switched off the engine, he gave a deep sigh and sat there with his mouth pulled into a stiff narrow line.
“I guess this is it,” he finally said.
“This is it?” Ruth echoed. “You sound like you’re dreading the thought.”
“I am. It feels strange to be moving into a place we’ve never even seen.”
She reached across the seat and took his hand in hers. “Be patient. Remember, it’s only temporary, like staying in a hotel. We’d never seen the room at the Majestic before, and yet it turned out great.”
“I suppose,” Cyrus replied. He climbed from the car and pulled the suitcase from the trunk.
A panel of call buttons labeled with each resident’s name was in the vestibule of the building. Ruth pushed the one marked “Bowman.”
Clara’s voice came through the speaker. “I’ll be right down.”
Minutes later she burst through the door wearing a wide smile and jangling two sets of keys. She hand
ed one set to Cyrus and held on to the second one.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your apartment.”
As they crossed the lobby, Clara pointed out the various features of the building.
“Back there is the recreation room.” She waggled a finger toward the double doors on the far side. “The party starts at five sharp, so be on time.”
They moved on. “This is the card room; this the library…”
When the elevator door slid open, they stepped in and Clara pushed six.
The apartment was at the far end of the hall. Clara unlocked the door then pushed the door open.
“Here you are, your new home.”
Cyrus cringed at the word “home.”
Does she not know this is temporary?
The thought of staying here forever was like a pebble in his shoe, something he simply couldn’t tolerate after so many years of living in his own house. His house didn’t have a card room or a recreation center but it had a nice wide backyard, one where he could plant things and watch them grow. A place where he could step outside without having to take an elevator to get there.
“It’s beautiful,” Ruth said as she strolled from room to room. “Simply beautiful.”
On the coffee table there was a bouquet of fresh flowers, and in the bright yellow kitchen a pot of ivy sat on the windowsill. The drugstore calendar hanging on the wall was turned to March, and some of the dates were circled.
“Oh, I think the previous tenant forgot their calendar,” Ruth said.
Clara laughed. “There was no previous tenant. I circled those dates so you’d know when the events are planned.”
“Events?” Cyrus repeated.
Clara nodded. “See, they’re written in. Card game, bowling night, quilting circle. This one,” she pointed to the last Saturday of the month, “that’s our Spring Fling Dance.”
“Dance?” Ruth turned to Cyrus with a happy grin. “It’ll be like the Peppermint Club.”
“Exactly,” Clara said.
Cyrus’s expression didn’t change. “No previous tenant? A nice apartment like this? Why?”
The Regrets of Cyrus Dodd Page 17