The Living End

by Lisa Samson

He laughs as he shuts the apartment door and checks to see if it’s locked. It’s his home, and if I can’t see the value of that to him, I’m a boob.

  The shopping trip is a hoot. Pots, pans, plates, cutlery. Lots of paper products. What boy is going to wash up tea-towels every week? I even throw in four packs of paper plates to get them started. Laundry detergent, dishwashing liquid, soap, shampoo, razors and shaving cream. Snack foods too.

  Back at the apartment, we begin unloading the car, which, naturally, is stuffed, as it’s so small. The skies darken, and summer thunder threatens a downpour. At least it smells that way.

  “I read somewhere that women can smell a snowfall, but men cant,” I say.

  “Really? Weird.”

  “Yeah. Bet you always wanted to know that.”

  “Hey, that’s a great pickup line.”

  I shut the trunk, our feet surrounded by bags.

  Matthew leans down and begins picking them up. “I still feel bad about this, Mrs. Laurel.”

  “Don’t. I never thought I’d get to send a kid off to college. You’re doing me a favor.”

  He closes the trunk, turns to me, and takes me into his arms, stronger now from a summer on the boat. He feels so much trimmer. I breathe him in. “I appreciate everything,” he says, his head way above mine. “You can’t possibly know how much.”

  I pull back and look up at his face. “You’re a good boy, Matthew.”

  He laughs. “You’d have been a wonderful mother. I may just adopt you. I mean, a guy can’t have too many mothers.”

  I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. “Now you’re embarrassing me. Let’s get this stuff inside before it rains. The last thing anybody needs is soggy paper towels.”

  He releases me. “Sort of defeats the purpose.”

  “Lets get inside. We still need to make it to the grocery store.”

  I let myself into the Havre de Grace house. It smells musty. I open all the windows, the storm over and done with. Naturally it poured as I drove up I-95. Thank goodness Matthew put the top up for me before I left. This car is not a rain car. My nerves feel as if they have split ends now, the way those monstrous, annoying tractor-trailers blew by me without a care in the world.

  Peta naps upstairs. She drove herself up here, dialysis machine and all. I need to unload her car, but a cup of tea is in order first off. I rummage through the cupboards and find another old box of Joey’s tea at the back. Lord only knows how long it’s been lurking back there. Still, Joey bought it, and I need the connection. I lose him a little bit more each day. When this house is sold … I look around me.

  I really have to gather everything together on this trip. I’ve put it off long enough. I call Maida.

  “I saw you pull in,” she says. “Glad to have you home.”

  “I’ll be here for several weeks this time. I’m having a big yard sale.”

  “Why?”

  “How much junk does one person need? Want to have one with me? If I know Shrubby, he’s already taken over with his stuff.”

  “That’s for sure. Although I doubt I can get him to part with any of it. I’ve got some things, though.”

  “I’ll put an ad in the paper.”

  “Good. Hey, how about you and Peta coming over for dinner tonight? It’s been way too long.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  “Six o’clock would be good for us. That good for you?”

  “We’ve got no plans.”

  No plans. Well, that’s hardly the case. We’ve got big plans, Peta and me. A plot actually. Richie’s right about that. Plans are when both people know everything. Plots contain secrets withheld from a lot of people. Yep, it’s a plot all right.

  The kettle screams. I quickly rinse out a cup, tear open the box of tea, drop in the bag, and pour the water over it. Time to get to work.

  “Pearly, you’re never going to sell a thing if you don’t stop telling stories about everything to every customer,” Maida says.

  “I can’t help it. They need to know.”

  “Why? They don’t care.”

  “They should.”

  “No, they shouldn’t. It’s the way of things. If you died, some junk dealer would just come in and haul this stuff away. They’re things, Pearly. That’s all these are to people.”

  She’s right. “I don’t want to let them go.”

  “Then why in world are you doing this?”

  “Because I have to.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I really do. You just don’t see it the way I do.”

  “Look, I’ll man the tables. Why don’t you take a walk or something? It’ll be easier on you.”

  I take her up on the offer. Yes, I’ll take a walk. I’ll walk and I’ll walk and I’ll walk. And I’ll hear Peta talking about what life will be like after the transplant, and I’ll mourn because life is so precious now. I love so many people and am loved back, and I’ll come to the conclusion once again that I do not want to die.

  My mind resumes consciousness. Is that a knock on the door? I scan the bedside clock: 2:00 A.M.

  “Pearly!” Peta yells from her room. “I think someone’s at the door.”

  “I’m getting my robe on now.”

  The doorbell rings as I run down the steps. I peer out the window and quickly yank open the front door.

  “Yolanda?”

  “Pearly!”

  “Come on in.”

  She rushes inside. “Matthew’s mother is dead.”

  “Good heavens. What happened?”

  “The whole house went up in a blaze. She didn’t get out.”

  “Sit down.”

  “The kids are in the car. Let me bring them in.”

  As she gathers up her chicks, I hurry back to the kitchen to put the kettle on and a pan of milk to warm for the children.

  “What’s going on?” Peta yells.

  “It’s Yolanda.”

  “And me on this freaky machine!”

  “Matthew’s mother is dead. Killed in a house fire.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I gather linens and towels and begin making up the sofa bed in the living room. Yolanda enters with a sleeping Clay. “I’ll just put him down on the lounger for now.” She disappears as three sleepy children file into the kitchen.

  “I’ve got some warm milk for you all. Just hang on a second while it heats up. Have a seat at the table.”

  The girls collapse into the chairs, Katie laying her head down on her arms. I finish readying the bed. This small house! We need more beds. I run up the stairs.

  “Peta, would you mind if Yolanda took the other bed in here?”

  “Of course not. I’ll get it ready.”

  “Does your line reach to the linen closet?”

  “Sure does. Don’t worry about a thing up here.”

  I run outside and pull the cushions from the porch chairs in the shed. Yolanda’s already in the living room with two armfuls of sleeping bags. “Oh, good,” she says, eyeing the cushions. “With these hardwood floors I was wondering if they’d really sleep or not.”

  We lay them out.

  “Peta’s getting the other bed ready in her room for you.”

  “I’ll take it. I am so tired.”

  “Mrs. Laurel, the milks about to boil over,” LeeLee yells.

  I run in and slide the pan off the burner. Darn. Now we’ll have to wait until it cools. I reach into the freezer for a few ice cubes. That’ll work. At least it’s whole milk, and Yo’s kids aren’t picky.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Yolanda unrolls the last sleeping bag. “We’ll talk after we get the kids down,” she says.

  Thirty minutes later, they’re tucked in and sleeping. Of course, Yolanda had them in their jammies for the trip.

  I make us all a cup of tea, and we settle in Peta’s room for the conversation. I ask, “So what happened?”

  Yo shakes her head. “They aren’t sure how it st
arted. But they know it was her bedroom.”

  “Probably fell asleep with a lit cigarette,” I say.

  “Probably.”

  “Where’s Matthew’s dad?”

  “He was on second shift at the factory, but they got hold of him. I got wind of the fire at the Rib Room and went down right away. Got there just after he did.”

  “How is he?”

  “Like you’d expect. The house burned down to the ground. It was a wingdinger of a fire.”

  “Not surprising with all those boxes and junk inside there.”

  “Anyway, I told him I’d come up and tell Matthew face to face. This isn’t news a person should get over the phone.”

  “We’ll go down to campus tomorrow. I’ll call him early and tell him to stay at the apartment until we get there.”

  Yolanda nods.

  Peta says, “I’ll watch the kids.”

  “It’s all set then.” I sip my tea, too much too quickly. It burns my tongue.

  “Nobody deserves to burn to death, Mrs. Laurel, no matter what kind of life they lived.”

  The Rib Room is dim, closed for the night. The scent of the day’s cooking lingers, spicy, sweet, and a bit cloying. Matthew sips on a Coke, his pale face igniting the gloom around us.

  “I know. It’s horrible.”

  “Do you think she felt anything?”

  “She was still in her bed, Matthew. She probably passed out long before the flames got to her.”

  I hope that’s true. It makes sense. What other explanation could there be?

  “It was a good funeral, though,” he says. “Lots of people there from the factory.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Truthfully, it was the most depressing funeral I’d ever attended. People in jeans and T-shirts standing around the grave smoking while the minister droned out a reading of the Twenty-third Psalm. But Matthew played his guitar, and that redeemed everything.

  “She did like to hear me play,” he said. “I have to give her that. She wasn’t such a bad mom, I guess.”

  Well, that sure isn’t the truth, but I’d be a fool to say it. “She loved you, Matthew. That’s all some women can handle. Who knows what demons she was fighting?”

  “Yeah.” He taps his fingers on the table.

  Cars pass down Main Street, their tires creating a soft whine that’s almost musical.

  “I sure don’t know what I’d do without you, Mrs. Laurel.”

  I only smile softly.

  “Do you remember our conversation by your car that day?”

  “Yes, of course I do. It meant a lot to me.”

  “Well, I guess I’m down to one now.”

  I wish he’d cry.

  Oh dear.

  Oh, Pearly Everlasting, what in heaven’s name have you gotten yourself into?

  And Matthew crumbles, finally weeping. I reach out my arms.

  I live a most extraordinary life these days. I am a cousin, a caretaker, a faux-mother, although perhaps not so faux if the love I feel for that boy is any indication. I am an adopted aunt to four wonderful children, and the love I feel for Yolanda merits a category all its own.

  I am blessed.

  It seems I am compelled to give credit where it is due. All these blessings simply arrived through no action of my own. Except for the guitar lessons, and even meeting Matthew could be categorized as happenstance. Has my life always been filled with such wonder and joy, and I failed to recognize it as such?

  Therein lies the crux to my newfound faith. I feel like a child again, reborn into something greater, more glorious, and of a deeper significance. I am George Bailey after he realizes he wants to live. I am watching people from all over come into my house, giving of themselves and wishing me a Merry Christmas.

  “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.”

  I sit in The Winters Run Inn. Christmas lights garland the darkened room, three different kinds: colorful miniatures, white icicles, and a string of red, green, and white rope lights chasing each other over the bar area. A red crepe-paper bell, the kind you see at weddings, hangs from the ceiling. Lots of bottoms perch on chrome stools, most of them still sausaged in winter coats. The room, paneled in plywood, bespeaks a bygone era, and I like it. Any kind of beer you’d like advertises itself via neon signs. Keno too. A karaoke machine sits in the corner, reminding me it’s the twenty-first century.

  I dropped Matthew and his roommate off at Ice World a little while ago so they can go skating, something I’ve never been able to do.

  So here I sit in the corner near one of the few windows, a 3-D Samuel Adams cardboard Christmas tree keeping me company. The waitress delivers a cup of vegetable soup. It’s a beautiful sight, people getting together. Chatting. Smiling. Communing. The skies are gray, and a balmy breeze blows outside.

  I take pictures in my head. I want to remember this. I want to remember it all. Joey will love to hear about it, even in heaven, I think.

  Peta’s encamped up at Maida’s house, as my little Tudor has passed into more capable hands. A nice couple from Bel Air, owners of a new bagel shop in Havre de Grace, are making it their own. Already the landscaping looks much better, and when I met them, her eyes sparkled as she talked about the place, all the things she loved inside and out, and the things she would do to make it her own.

  The house needs to breathe again, become a work-in-progress, waiting expectantly for yet another change within its walls. A nursery is already in the works, and this satisfies me. Who knows the last time that little house felt the thumps of tiny feet running on its wooden floors? Yes, it was good to us all those years. It deserves to breathe again.

  The last time I sat here in The Winters Run Inn, Joey sat with me. We ordered fried oyster sandwiches and crab soup. We talked about the new medication his doctor had just prescribed an hour before. Joey felt good about finally getting his blood pressure down. I felt hope for many more lovely years ahead. I didn’t know I had less than a year left with him, and I’m glad that was hidden from me.

  I’ve decided to give myself a break regarding my life with Joey, particularly how I pushed his faith aside. Peta said I should, and—well, it’s hard not to listen to Peta. I cannot say why God chose this path for me, but I do feel my faith journey has been in the making far longer than it seems. Joey lived it for years, quietly and consistently, and that had its effect, collecting steam for the future when his death, like an explosion, released years of buildup.

  I console myself that he knows a little of what is happening down here to me. I mean, if God is love, if He is merciful, He’ll let Joey know all those years of prayer weren’t for nothing.

  “It’s just country boys and girls getting down on the farm,” hollers the jukebox, and I smile. Country music. Oh, dear.

  Near the Sam Adams Christmas tree a sign says, DALE EARNHARDT FAN PARKING ONLY. The waitress asks me if I’m okay, and I simply answer, “I am.”

  Two of the coated behinds, an elderly couple, rise from the bar. The lady points at a younger man seated next to her. “You behave yourself,” she says.

  “I’ll try.”

  The waitress pipes up, “You’re too late, Ruth. You should have said that four months ago!”

  They all laugh. I smile. But I think, “Now what could possibly have happened four months ago?”

  Another Christmas dawns, the third since Joey’s passing. I’m having trouble with the research on this transplant business. The problem is this: I don’t know who to ask. I don’t know where a person can start cold on a question like this. So I’m bringing myself up to date. My new computer will arrive next week, and by January I’ll be up and running. I sure hope I can figure out how to navigate the Internet. It’s really my only hope.

  The cabin and the farmhouse teem with visitors, except for Maida and Shrubby, who always stay with his brother Marsh. Matthew brought a friend from school who lives in California and can’t afford to get home. Harry’s home for the holidays too. This year, instead of Mason jars with potpourri and twink
le lights, we settled on ceramic Christmas trees. He paints them, and I install the tiny plastic lights and lamp works. He tells me which colors go where, and when those things light up, they are like nothing I’ve ever seen. He chooses the most offbeat glazes, and they come out like works of art. Now Peta would berate me for this, but I took them down to Christmas Spirit in Ocean City and showed them to the buyer. She gasped. “How much?”

  I shrugged. “Well, they cost us about fifteen dollars to make, and then there’s the time to consider.”

  “I’ll give you thirty apiece, advertise them as one-of-a-kind, and I’ll make a good profit. Plus, I like getting local stuff in here if can.

  “Thirty-five?”

  “Deal.”

  We shake hands, and I am amazed. “Well, okay then! We have about twenty of them in the car.”

  “Let me have them.”

  Harry helps me unload, the lady cuts us a check, and we’re off, seven hundred dollars, heavier in the pocketbook. Harry wants to go Christmas shopping. So where do we go? To the ceramics store to buy more supplies.

  Now, Christmas dinner consumed and no bad oysters along with it, Harry hands a package to each person, including Brett from California. Everybody delights in their Christmas tree, and all the oudets in the downstairs of the farmhouse are suddenly engaged. We turn off the lights and sing “O Christmas Tree,” little Ireland’s voice, high and clear, guiding us all.

  Yolanda walks over to me and slips her arm around my waist. “To quote Linus, ‘This, Charlie Brown, is what Christmas is all about.’ ”

  “I heard that.”

  She laughs and pulls me tight, her many brass bangles jingling like bells.

  I click on the connect button, wincing in advance at the sound to come as the computer connects. Oh, isn’t that the most hideous noise? Well, I guess everything comes with a price.

  I had the computer installed at the farmhouse so Peta could use it too. She’s already become an e-mail junkie three weeks in, communicating with a stay-at-home mom in Kentucky, two other polycystic kidney disease folks, and a computer specialist in Scotland.