Anyway. Frank just swept Aunt Iris right off her feet. I guess they even had an affair. So Aunt Iris wasn’t a willowy virgin. Mom says that Grandma and Grandpa were very alarmed. Musicians always get a bad rap. So they yanked Iris out of music school, but it was too late: she and Fletcher were married. Okay, a little bit happens in this story.
Iris came home, but she was wearing a wedding ring. Frank was out on the road, playing gigs. He’s a character straight out of a book, right? Not Proust, though. Too long ago. Maybe a movie hero, more like Rob Lowe or maybe George Clooney—one of those cool old guys from my parents’ generation. Their generation was full of iconic heroes—mystery and swagger. Anyway, Frank was gone a lot, and Iris started teaching piano lessons at home, just for something to do, I guess. Or for money, or maybe both. She must have earned some money, because she moved out of my grandparents’ house and into her own little one across town. More about that later.
Things went on for a while. Frank Fletcher came back a few times, but then he faded out of the picture, I guess. It’s kind of interesting that they didn’t get divorced. Iris Fletcher just kept on wearing her wedding ring and teaching piano. I think she gave up sex altogether to focus on her music. So the wedding ring kept men at a distance.
Here’s the whole part about Aunt Iris. All of the Frank Fletcher stuff happened years ago. For all we know, he died somewhere. He never sent Aunt Iris any money at all. Iris must have been a real budgeter, because she managed okay with her piano lessons. That and the fact that she ate dinner at either our house or Grandma and Grandpa’s a lot. Plus she got an allowance from Grandpa. But she wasn’t living like a queen, I will tell you.
Then about three years ago, everything changed. Grandma had a stroke. She lived a little while but she couldn’t talk, and we all know she hated living after that. So she just gave it up and died. It was kind of awesome that she just quit eating and drinking and willed herself out of here. I was proud of her courage in making that decision. But then Grandpa just gave up, too. He told us that life without Grandma felt like he was numb all over. You know where this is going: Grandpa died eight months after Grandma.
Aunt Iris inherited a fortune from her parents. That really sounds good. But it isn’t actually true. I put it in for color. No, Iris inherited enough money to live on for a long time. Keep in mind her lifestyle: bare bones. So Iris was happy. She at least seemed happy to the family. Maybe because we didn’t want to think about her being alone, sexually frustrated, and rattling around in her tiny house. In reality, she was a recluse with a part-time job.
Iris calls her house a bungalow. It isn’t really. To me, it is more like a little red-brick box with a black roof. There isn’t a front porch or anything. Don’t bungalows have to have porches? Don’t start thinking British village cottages, either. It’s a little square house, that’s it. It has a lot of charm to it, don’t get me wrong. In the middle of the front is the bottle blue front door. On each side of the door is a skinny window. They have a name for them, but I am not an architect. Just imagine an ordinary, run of the mill place, and then pretty it up in your mind. That’s Iris’s house.
Grandpa died when I was twelve. So that means Iris became a recluse about two and a half years ago. During that time, she decorated her house, like I said. Okay, a few more specifics, but really, you should be using your imagination: She got it painted inside, in really pretty, pale colors. I like the kitchen the best because she painted it pale yellow and refinished the wide-plank oak floorboards. She got a square maple table with Windsor chairs for the breakfast nook—which, of course, has a bay window with yellow gingham curtains. She got a new stainless steel stove, a new icebox (we call them that in our family), and these really fancy countertops that are black with little speckles of silver in them. She had them put her new farmhouse sink under the window facing the side yard, so she can look out on the ash trees and her lilac bush. She keeps a fake geranium on the windowsill, but it’s made of silk and looks totally real. It doesn’t have a smell, so Aunt Iris has a plug-in thing that smells like a cross between lily of the valley flowers and vanilla. Her kitchen is heaven, I tell you. I regress when I am over there. Like right back to third grade, when all I cared about was getting hugs and eating junk.
What does she do all the time, now that she is a recluse? Well, Iris loves playing the piano, like I said. It sits right in the middle of her little living room, across from the fireplace. She plays and burns a fire in the winter, and, boy, is it nice in there. I go over a lot when it’s cold. I like to sit on her new sofa (oh, yeah, she got some furniture, too) with the blue-and-beige stripes. It has down cushions. I sink right in. The fire in the fireplace crackles and pops and Aunt Iris plays sonatas or something. All I know is that it’s so relaxing, I feel like I’m just as safe and happy as if I were on Aunt Iris’s lap. Yeah. Third grade.
During the spring and summers, she gardens out back. Again, you really need to use your imagination, because I’m no Rembrandt, but suffice it to say that she has flower beds with only white-and-pink flowers. She bought a fountain that’s more like a birdbath—water squirts out of a sparrow’s beak. He’s kind of perched on the side of it. Two wrought iron chairs and a little round table are out there. She got those out of our garage; we never sit outside because Winnie hates bugs. Anyway, with the flowers and the water noises, it’s really peaceful. And Iris has hummingbirds. Flying jewels. Hummingbirds are so fast that I can’t even see their wings beating in the sun. They look like big bees that roar. Aunt Iris says that they fly all over the world. Just think. Those tiny, be-sparkled birds have been more places than I will probably ever go.
Being a recluse has agreed with Aunt Iris. She is still willowy, but not quite as much as she used to be. Now I would call her “graceful and calm.” She smiles to herself, and sometimes she hums a sonata. She isn’t plump as a potato like my Mom. More like a filled-out version of a ballerina. It may be because now that she has a lot of time on her hands, she makes scones. Man, are they delicious! If you get a hot scone and put butter, whipped cream, and jam on it, it’s better than chocolate cake, in my opinion. It crunches with just a touch of sweetness, and with the melting butter and strawberry jam, it makes my mouth burst with happiness. I go over there whenever she makes them. Mom says that Iris is getting to look more like her these days. Oh, boy. Chunky. But on Aunt Iris, the added weight looks good, like I said. She has bigger boobs now. And her cheeks are redder. And eating scones has either turned her hair darker or she is using a Revlon product from Heath’s Pharmacy and Assorteds. Her hair now looks like chocolate caramels. She sure smiles more. Aunt Iris has white teeth. Probably from the toothpaste with extra-whitening power that she gets from the pharmacy.
But I have a feeling that Aunt Iris’s days of being a hermit might be numbered. Because . . . a man. His name is Don Horley. Remember those countertops? Well, Mr. Horley is the owner and installer at Horley’s Kitchens and Baths. Yep. You guessed it. He sold Iris those fancy black countertops. She says that he painted such a beautiful verbal picture of just how the kitchen would glow with the glossy black and little sparkly bits. A beautiful verbal picture illustrated with rippling biceps and male pheromones. And maybe some aftershave.
When the day came to have the counters installed, Mr. Horley showed up with the crew. This isn’t ordinarily the case. I know this because that’s what Aunt Iris said. He came with the crew and stayed all day, sweating right along with the men and getting everything put in just so. I won’t put words into her mouth, but I guess Don Horley looks quite sexual in a tank top. Even though he’s something like fifty-five years old. But I get it—a hot man is a hot man at any age. Anyway, Aunt Iris talked to me about Mr. Horley just about non-stop for the next two weeks.
Okay. Forget Proust. Things are starting to sizzle around here. First of all, Aunt Iris took off her wedding ring. I guess it kind of freaked out Don Horley, kissing a married woman. You heard me. And Aunt Iris is walking around with stars in her
eyes. That kind of freaks me out, thinking of old people having sex. Don’t say it. I know—I need to get over my fear of sex. Adam would say “fear of fucking,” but I try to keep the F-bomb out of my vocabulary. Mostly.
What’s worse, my mom sat me down for a conversation.
“Mandy, Iris is in love.” We were sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of the afternoon last Saturday. It was June the first. Just to give you a time frame.
“I know. She’s all glowy, and I think she’s wearing makeup. Has Dad noticed her upping her shopping habits at the store?”
I guess I have to start filling you in on some details. We live in Framington, like I mentioned, which is a medium-sized town. Kind of north of Columbus. In Ohio. Nobody important ever lived or died here. It looks like any other boring town in Ohio: squatty buildings, not much more than a main street and five intersections. One grocery. My dad’s store. And, of course, Walmart is just drooling to buy Jasper Plevin’s farm outside of town and move in. Like I said, typical. We have policemen, but they do things like write tickets. Absolutely nothing exciting ever happens here. So this conversation with my mom was starting to get me nervous. Because I know Winnie Heath. Those blue eyes don’t blaze without a reason.
“So she can’t get married.” Mom started to drum her fingers on the tabletop. When I didn’t respond, she drummed harder. “Well, Mandy?”
“Well, what?” I tried to act noncommittal. Like this wasn’t the most earthshaking lead-in to a conversation I had ever experienced.
“We have to do something about it.” She stared right at me, her eyes like lasers.
“What do you mean, do something? Mom, you sound like somebody on TV. What can we do?”
Winnie Heath transformed before my very eyes. Instead of the chubby little charmer, she morphed into a stocky private investigator. Just like that. You won’t believe what happened.
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Crossing the Street Page 31