Linden Hills

by Naylor, Gloria;

  Laurel laughed and the vibrations hurt her in the middle.

  “Oh yes, I did.” Roberta nodded. “Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a decent fruitcake and I been soaking them things in brandy for months. It was too much to haul up my own sweet potatoes, but I figured that even these old frostbitten northern potatoes would turn out a respectable pie with my secret mixture of cinnamon and nutmeg.”

  “Grandma, the sweet potatoes in these stores probably came from Georgia.”

  “Yeah, but they lose something with all that traveling, believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you.” Her eyes clouded over. “You can lose a lot when you travel too much.”

  “But anyway”—Roberta’s voice got louder—“first thing we gotta do is set to cleaning this house. Get them floors and windows shining again and the sinks scoured. When I first walked in here, the dust looked at me like I was the one that didn’t belong.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, I’ve just been lax. There’s a woman I can call.”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t trust nobody else to be cleaning where I have to eat and sleep. People just don’t take the same care when it ain’t their home.”

  “This is my home, isn’t it, Grandma?” The question could have easily come from a dazed and lost child.

  “Of course, it’s yours—and right smart at that.”

  “And I can make it, I mean make it into something nice and warm for Christmas like homes should be.” Laurel’s eyes burned inward as her fevered hands gripped Roberta’s. “And I can have Daddy and the family over for the holidays. I know I’ve been awful to Claudia all these years and she’s really made him such a good wife, she’s been a better wife than … And Howard, I can try to make it up to Howard, too. I haven’t been too kind to him either. And he’s really not such a bad man, Grandma. But I can do something about that now, can’t I?”

  Roberta’s nod was as slow as it was sad.

  “Yes, I can.” Laurel pressed her lips together. “I can do it.”

  She tried. She tried unbelievably hard—until the day that the snow began to fall. Opening up that “place where she was supposed to be at home” was terrifying when she discovered the weight of its emptiness. But she stayed close to Roberta, hoping to fill it with her presence. She followed the stooped and withered shoulders closely around the house, polishing mirrors and tables, vacuuming upholstery and changing draperies. She ignored the fact that the cleaner the house became, the emptier it felt. The discarded magazines and newspapers, the layers of dust and disarrayed rugs had at least taken up extra space, space she now covered with hanging wreaths, bunches of mistletoe, and huge trays of hard candy and nuts. She ordered the largest Christmas tree she could, and it groaned under the weight of Fiberglas balls, oversized doves and stars, yards of silver tinsel. She bought presents for people she hadn’t seen in years and piled them under the tree. She plugged in the phone again and it began ringing, shrill persistent music that accompanied the sound of whisks against metal bowls, the opening and closing of the oven door, the new Christmas albums. No Mahler, no Bessie or Billie, she told Roberta, they were too sad. But songs for this season, songs to mix with the aroma of ginger, mace, and burnt sugar that filled the downstairs. She played the music—loud. She laughed—loud. And she sat up in bed at night in the silent house and wondered why it wasn’t enough. The weight pressed down on her noticeably then, growing heavier each evening as she paced her room, hoping to relieve it so she could breathe. If she lay down with it, she knew she would suffocate and she feared dying in her sleep.

  She begged Roberta for stories. Tell her again about the way she had met Grandpa, the only boy who dared come to church without a tie. Tell her about Brer Fox and Brer Bear stealing the farmer’s chickens, about the time she had spanked her for selling her tricycle for a nickel; tell her anything that she could throw into this gaping hole that threatened to crush her to death at night. With a growing horror, Laurel began to realize that all she had been doing that week only added to the weight. Roberta’s presence, the decorated rooms, the endless chatter about childhood friends weren’t filling the void, but feeding it. She was taking in the sight of an old woman, the sound of old stories, and the smells of an old tradition with nothing inside her to connect up to them. The woman-child just wasn’t in there and neither was the woman.

  It soon became too painful to laugh with that heaviness on her chest, so she smiled a lot for Roberta’s sake. Then even the slightest noise, the lightest touch began to irritate her. She wanted more than anything else to be left alone, but it was too late. In a few days the house would be crowded with people and talk. Just the thought of the rustling paper and grating laughter exhausted her. She stayed in her room during the day, trying to sleep since she couldn’t at night. She told Roberta that an old knee injury made it too difficult to keep baking and cleaning. The ease with which her lies were accepted brought tears to her eyes. She ached to tell Roberta how much she cared about her, but she knew she’d start crying. And Roberta was right: only fools tried to talk their love to someone else. So Laurel sought an alternative route to allow her to meet her grandmother halfway. In desperation, she thought about the two people who had come the closest to being called friends. The three of them formed a strange triangle where she was in the middle between a woman who admired her and a woman she admired.

  First she tried calling Luther’s wife, who had always thought her so strong, so self-assured. Why, Laurel had found a way to keep a career and a home going. Laurel actually headed a whole division of men at IBM and didn’t take any flak. She needed to hear the special awe and deference in that voice when she picked up the phone and realized it was her. Laurel needed that open pride for what she had become before she called Ruth Anderson to hear hidden pity for the exact same thing. The phone at the Nedeeds rang with a dull hum, ending in sharp clicks that reverberated in Laurel’s middle. She kept the receiver to her ear for at least twenty rings, dreading the moment she must put it down and add the burden of yet another empty. Now, where could she be? There was one woman who never went anywhere. She seemed so content nested down there at the end of Tupelo Drive. No, it was more than contentment, a certain smugness as if it were a privilege to wait hand and foot on that prude, Luther. She didn’t want a life of her own. She was so willing to live vicariously through Laurel’s life, to call at least twice a month and listen patiently to her complaints about her job.

  Laurel frowned at the receiver and put it down. But then, her friend hadn’t called in quite a while, had she? No, not since the summer, and Laurel had been so out of it, it never dawned on her. It didn’t make much difference, she never had anything worthwhile to say.

  But, then, was that what Ruth Anderson thought of her? She also hadn’t spoken to Ruth since the summer and Ruth never phoned her, but she was so willing to listen whenever Laurel rang up on Wayne Avenue. Strange, she had started calling out of pity for Ruth: a broken marriage and losing that house on Fifth Crescent Drive. And then remarrying a man who was a mental patient and worked in factories—when he could work. But slowly, very slowly, she began to sense that Ruth was actually pitying her—as if Laurel were mired down there on Tupelo Drive and the best thing that could have happened to Ruth was that divorce and moving back to Wayne Avenue. Laurel kept calling because she admired that in the woman: the ability to pretend with such ease. No, she kept calling because she admired that woman, that ease. And she became the pretender. The phone stopped after the second ring. “Ruth? It’s Laurel, darling. Merry Christmas!”

  She remembered hanging up the phone and taking advantage of the relief on her chest to fly downstairs and tell Roberta that an old girlfriend was dropping by the next day. They were going to exchange gifts. No, not something you could buy but something made with your own hands. This particular woman was in pretty bad straits right now, and so they had agreed to bake each other something. Laurel prided herself on the novel idea; she had saved Ruth embarrassment. But hadn’t Ruth
been the one to suggest it? Hadn’t Ruth said, “Why don’t you get up out of that bed and let’s make each other a Christmas gift?” Hadn’t there even been a tremor of urgency in Ruth’s voice? She didn’t know why, there had been none in hers. She had just called to say Merry Christmas. Her grandmother was spending the holidays with her, and she and Howard weren’t together right now. There was nothing so terribly tragic in that. Ruth had gone through a separation herself, even a divorce. She now vaguely recalled the coaxing, the soothing in Ruth’s voice. Why, Ruth had been trying to calm her down, and Laurel just couldn’t remember why she felt she had to. It couldn’t have been anything that she said: problems, yes there were problems but nothing Ruth hadn’t heard before. Was it the way she heard it now? Laurel just couldn’t remember that, but she set about making a rum pound cake with frantic energy, chattering to Roberta that she felt so much better now. Why, she was going to make a dozen pound cakes, and rearrange all the furniture in the living room for the party Christmas Eve. She thanked God that Ruth had been home, that she had this reprieve—she could try again for Roberta. And see how Roberta was watching her. Every time she turned around, Roberta was looking at her—and always smiling. She was even too excited to be disappointed when Ruth got sick and sent her husband instead with a box of ginger cookies. She badgered Roberta to show her how to string them up on the already overburdened tree. Yes, she was doing her best to make the most of that reprieve. Then the snow began to fall.

  It started to come down heavily just as Ruth’s husband left, his arms full of cake and six bottles of Howard’s best wine. She looked out the window and saw it sticking firmly to the tree branches and lawn. She lay in bed, shades drawn, and felt, rather than heard, it covering the world outside. It emptied into her as she stayed awake all night, arms across her forehead. She was still in that position when Roberta tapped lightly on her door the next morning.

  “Laurel, there’s a man downstairs to see you, a Mr. Nedeed. I told him you might not be up to seeing nobody. But he was right polite and said it was important if you could just spare him a few minutes.”

  “Is his wife with him?”

  “Ain’t nobody down there but him. When he first rang the bell, I thought it was them boys that’s out back, shoveling the snow. Did you see how much it done snowed out there? A regular blizzard, and it ain’t stopped yet.”

  She didn’t have to see; she could feel that it hadn’t stopped. Inside of her, it was building on roofs and the steep slope of that hill, mantling the naked trees and dull hedges with a shimmering coat of crystals. Soon the sun would be bright and sparkling across its glassy surface, dripping tiny diamonds from the tips of branches, the landscape quickly turning into a perfect, storybook picture. The sight spilled its full weight into her middle, and she finally caved in under the inevitable. There was absolutely nothing she could do after this. She got out of bed, moving like a crippled bird. She had tried her best, but—despite all of her efforts and on top of everything else—it was going to be a White Christmas.

  Luther stood up when she entered the living room and offered his hand.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Dumont. I apologize for disturbing you so early.”

  “It’s all right, Luther.” She sank laconically into a deep-cushioned chair, wrapping her robe around her legs. “And since when have we been so formal?”

  “Well, this is a formal call.”

  “Oh, I see.” She sighed. “I was wondering why you came alone.”

  “My wife’s away for the holidays, visiting relatives.”

  “Oh, really, where?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “I don’t remember her telling me that she had relatives in that city. In fact, I didn’t think that she had any living relatives.”

  Luther narrowed his eyes just a flicker. “She has distant relations in several places, but I didn’t come here to discuss my in-laws.” He cleared his throat. “I assume that you didn’t receive the letter from the Tupelo Realty Corporation.”

  “It may have come, I don’t know.” She glanced toward the front foyer. “There’s been a lot of mail lately. People send a lot of cards, and I got tired of opening them.”

  “I understand. So then I suppose it’s safe to assume that you haven’t been in contact with your husband.”

  “You don’t have to assume that, Luther. I’m sure by now the whole neighborhood knows that Howard and I are separated. His Mercedes is gone, isn’t it?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat again. “If you open the mail that you’ve received lately, I believe you’ll discover that he’s decided to file for a divorce. I’m truly sorry that you had to hear it from me first, Mrs. Dumont, but he sent notice of such intentions to the Tupelo Realty Corporation earlier this week.”

  “I don’t understand why I had to hear it from you at all.” Laurel straightened up in her chair. “Not that I care one way or the other. But it’s none of your corporation’s business what goes on in this house.”

  “You’re perfectly right. But this house, itself, is my business. And since your husband has informed us—as he’s legally bound to—that he no longer plans to reside in these premises, I came to find out when you plan to vacate as well.”

  “Oh. I don’t plan to vacate at all. If Howard doesn’t want to live here anymore with me, that’s his affair. And my lawyers will have to get in touch with him—by mail, I assume—since he’s kept his whereabouts such a secret. But I’m sure he knows that I’m more than able to buy him out of whatever rights he feels are his.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Dumont. This land was only leased to the Dumonts in 1903, and subsequently the Tupelo Realty Corporation underwrote the mortgage for the house that was built on it. Now, that gave them the right to live here for a thousand years and a day, which in effect is a small eternity, but it’s still a lease. And under our stipulations, if the Dumonts no longer wish to reside here and there are no children to inherit the lease, the property reverts back to the original owners: my family—the Nedeeds. That decision has been made, Mrs. Dumont. And, believe me, I was quite pained to hear it, because the Dumonts are one of the oldest and finest families in Tupelo Drive, and I had hoped to have them here forever. But, unavoidably, things do happen, and I’m inquiring about your personal plans to vacate.”

  “No, let’s back up a minute, Luther. Howard Dumont made that decision, not Laurel Dumont—not me. And this Dumont is telling you that she’s going to stay here.”

  “The decision isn’t yours, Mrs. Dumont.”

  “You’re damned right it’s mine.” Laurel leaned over. “Don’t come in here, bringing any of that crap from the Middle Ages. You see, I know how it is in your house, Luther. But Howard speaks for Howard, and I speak for me. We’re in the twentieth century up here at Seven Twenty-Two Tupelo Drive. And I have as much say about the future of this property as he does.”

  “You’re in Linden Hills, Mrs. Dumont. Read your lease. And this property belongs to the Tupelo Realty Corporation. Whatever is in this house and whatever you’ve added to this house is between you and your husband to divide by whatever laws of whatever century you choose. But Howard Dumont has decided that there are to be no more Dumonts at Seven Twenty-Two Tupelo Drive, and according to the original terms of the lease, that’s how things must stand.”

  “I’ll see you in court, Luther.”

  “Unfortunately, you won’t be the first.”

  “But I’ll be the first to drag your ass all the way to Washington, D.C.”

  “There’s no need for that sort of language, Mrs. Dumont. When you think about it, what would you do alone in a house this size? You would probably come to the conclusion that it was best to move anyway.”

  “Daniel Braithwaite didn’t move, and his wife has been dead for years. I didn’t see you running down there to kick him out—when you should have. That crazy old Peeping Tom with his decayed willow trees is a disgrace to this neighborhood.”

  “Daniel Braithwaite has
the right to that property for as long as he lives. And there was always the chance that he might remarry.”

  “Well, I might remarry, too. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Of course, a young woman like you should. But if you did, the lease would still be invalid unless we decided to negotiate with your new husband—if he qualified.”

  “This conversation isn’t taking place.” Laurel shook her head. “There is no way that this conversation is taking place in my living room, with this man looking me straight in the face and telling me that I don’t exist. That I don’t live in this house.”

  She began to laugh, shrill bursts of air with her head thrown back. It went on and on.

  “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Dumont. But that’s the way things have always been here.”

  “Don’t look so distressed, Luther.” Her hand went to her heaving chest. “You see, this has never been home, and you’ve just added a new dimension to it for me. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.” Now her laughter couldn’t be differentiated from a scream.

  “Please, do you want me to call someone for you?”

  “No, why?” She took deep breaths and then tightened her lips. “I’m fine. I just want you to get the fuck out of my house. But don’t worry, we’ll meet again in court.”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Dumont.” He stood up, his eyes penetrating and a bit sad. “I truly don’t think so.”

  If it had been honest anger, it might have helped. Or just simple indignation would have carried her through. But she watched his retreating back and felt nothing. If the house had burned down the moment he closed the door, she wouldn’t have cared. She had fought him only through reflex, a reflex triggered by a history of firing against ingrained male assumptions that she didn’t count. But now that the practice session was over and the target gone, Laurel took in the full weight of his words: she had never lived in a house in which she had never lived. He thought he was bringing bad news and he had looked so comical sitting there, trying to be compassionate when he’d actually come with no news at all. Yes, Luther had brought her absolutely nothing.