by Viqui Litman
Barbara’s eyes filled with tears, but she managed a thank you. “And,” she took a breath, “thanks for letting me stay here.”
Della looked away. “Well,” she said, “there’s no sense in making any big decisions until we see what the kids want to do with Pauline’s share.”
Barbara wavered a second, then forced herself to press on. “You know, Della, Richard left me … comfortable.” She saw the skepticism in Della’s eyes. “More than comfortable, I guess. And I don’t want to start any fights here.” She felt her lips start to tremble, but she kept going. “So if you need to borrow something … to take care of Hugh Junior and Melissa, I mean …”
She didn’t know why Della looked so exasperated. “Kat and I can take care of Hugh Junior and Melissa.” Della’s eyes narrowed, and Barbara felt the same way she had years before when Della would squint at her and ask, “What do you do all day, anyway?”
“I meant that since I won’t be bidding on the other half of the Ladies Farm, there’s no reason why I can’t make funds available to you. After all,” she straightened her own back, “there would be no sense in just running the price up, as long as I can go on living here.” Her resolve lasted only as long as the sentence, leaking out with each word until she felt tears again. Still, she stood facing Della in the bathroom across a cart of cleaning supplies, both of them wet, dirty, and clad in yellow rubber gloves.
Maybe Della felt sorry for her. “Oh, of course you can stay here, Barbara. I just meant that for Kat and me, this is business and we should finance it that way. That’s all.”
Barbara nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They wheeled the cart out of the bathroom and into the hallway. “I’ll vacuum this hall,” Barbara said. “I guess we’ll leave Pauline’s room alone today, let those kids work in peace.”
“Yeah,” said Della, but she held on to Barbara’s gaze, and Barbara looked at her quizzically. “Can I ask you one thing? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”
“Sure,” said Barbara. She braced herself, knowing Della wanted to know how long she would stay.
“Did Richard really know?”
“Richard? Know?”
“About you and Hugh?”
“Oh!” Barbara was amazed that she herself had forgotten, though she noticed, lately, that sometimes she went whole days without thinking about it. “Yes,” she replied.
“How did he find out?”
“I told him,” Barbara said. “I couldn’t live with it. I don’t know how anyone does. But it was stupid, because I got the comfort of the confession, but I broke his heart. He pulled away from me then. He still loved me, but after that, everything was different.”
It was funny that today she could talk calmly about this, but the Ladies Farm had brought tears.
“I’m sure he forgave you,” Della said.
Barbara shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
They put the cart away in silence, and Barbara started back for the vacuum cleaner. They had to get cleaned up enough to help with lunch.
“He was a jerk,” Della said suddenly as they closed the utility-room door.
Barbara didn’t follow. “Richard,” Della said. “Your husband. He was a jerk if he didn’t forgive you that one thing.”
Barbara shook her head. “Richard wasn’t a jerk. You didn’t know him the way I did.”
Chapter 7
Pauline Freschatte was a real friend, Barbara typed on her laptop, then leaned back against the pillows. Alone in her room following lunch with Pauline’s kids, Barbara realized she’d have to think all the way back to Chicago to remember times before Pauline in her life. Only Richard knew her longer. As adrift as the two of them had been, siblings scattered and parents estranged, she and Richard could not have imagined how to become a family without Pauline and Hugh to show them.
Barbara backspaced and retyped: Pauline Freschatte was my friend. And now that I need her most, she thought, breaking into tears, she’s not here. Without looking, Barbara reached over to the bedside for a tissue. After Richard’s death, she had learned to accept these tear showers, wipe them away and go on. Still sniffling, she typed, And once you were her friend, she accepted everything about you.
Even that you slept with her husband, Barbara thought. Or maybe, she amended, Pauline didn’t exactly accept that, she just kept her feelings to herself all these years and then had a heart attack over it. Don’t think about that, Barbara ordered herself. Think about getting this written so Della and Kat will see how useful you are.
Barbara wished she could call Dickie, but there was no phone in the damn room, and she had already called him twice since Pauline’s funeral. He had offered to come to Sydonia, but there was no point until he could see that she was settled here. Barbara checked her watch, then tapped out another two sentences. She still needed to find a phone with enough privacy from which to call both broker and banker. Maybe I could set up an E-mail address, through the web site, she thought, then wondered about the security.
Sliding off the bed, Barbara made her way to the window. From here she could follow the river as it wound into town. The courthouse tower and the First Methodist spire poked up out of the live oaks. Hugh and Pauline chose well, she thought, admiring the way the hill rose on the other side of the Nolan. For the millionth time she acknowledged how well Pauline and Hugh had complemented one another and wondered that she herself had ever been attracted to anyone so reticent. Not reticent enough, of course, but still, compared to Richard, Hugh’s reserve had been fascinating.
As Barbara watched, Nancy beached the rubber raft, and Melissa’s boys, Taylor and Brian, jumped ashore and raced toward whoever must be calling them from the side of the house. Brian, unable to keep pace with his older brother, gamely chugged along behind. For a second, Barbara recalled the three boys of the past—Dickie and Jamie fighting for the lead while Hugh trudged after them—and she ached for those sunburned legs and the sweaty, boy-smell that had filled so many family summers.
It must be hard for Della, Barbara thought, turning from the window: losing Pauline and seeing these kids—she reached for her laptop—and having me here.
Hugh Jr. had told Della that their goal for the visit was to collect their mother’s belongings and leave the Ladies Farm behind them as quickly as possible.
“Don’t y’all want any of the furniture?” Rita questioned as they helped carry boxes out to the car. “Not even that old armoire?” She sidestepped Brian, who sat on the curb and poked at tar bubbles with a stick.
“It’s more trouble than it’s worth for me to ship it to California,” Melissa said. She glanced quickly at her younger son. “Don’t touch that tar with your fingers,” she warned, then continued to Rita, “And Hugh and Carrie have gone so contemporary …” Her voice trailed off and her hands waved in the air as she waited for Hugh Jr. to open the Volvo tailgate.
“Dave says he’ll be happy to haul it for you,” Rita offered to Hugh Jr. and Carrie.
“Pauline picked those pieces to furnish this house,” Carrie insisted, setting her small carton on the ground. “They belong here, with you.” She, too, glanced down at Brian. “Come on, Brinny,” she invited the boy as she extended her hand. “Let’s go give Flops one more hug.” She smiled nervously at the assembled group, then fled with the child.
Della was relieved about the furniture. She could have parted with the bedroom things, but she didn’t feel ready to face the office without Pauline’s desk. “Are you sure this is all you want?” she asked one more time.
“We’ve got her journals, some of her books, and the jewelry,” said Hugh Jr. “And we piled the things we think should go to Goodwill on the bed.” He motioned to Melissa, who handed him her carton. “You’re welcome to go through them. I know mother would want you to have whatever you liked.”
Della nodded, since he seemed to be speaking to her rather than to Rita. She supposed he thought of her as the voice of authority for the Ladies Farm; she had
been a fixture of his childhood as well as his parents’ constellation: Robbie and Jamie’s mom, Pauline’s friend.
She shook her head to clear it because Hugh Jr. had continued. “… the appraiser next week, Dad’s estate, handle mostly over the phone.”
He was still talking to her as he arranged more cartons in the back of the station wagon. Then, after he withdrew from the back and slammed the tailgate, he said to her, “I’m not like my father, you know. I can handle business.”
Della met his gaze while she debated whether to reassure him of her faith in his abilities or to rush to his father’s defense. “Your dad handled business,” she said finally. “He just had a bad break or two. And I’m sure you’re quite competent.” She tried to smile, but her voice had begun to quiver. “I know because your mother … your mother always was so proud …” Her face had grown hot and ridiculous tears filled her eyes, but she wanted to continue “… so proud of both of you.”
From behind, Melissa put her arms around her. “It’s okay, Aunt Dell,” Melissa whispered.
Della nodded. Of course it was okay. Hugh Jr. already looked sorry for upsetting her.
When he started to apologize, she told him not to worry about it. “It’s just … the way you spoke about your father. I never thought … none of us ever thought of him as no good in business.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, looked down the street to where it dead-ended at the Castleburg fence. “I just meant, you know, you could trust me to handle this. I was afraid you still think of me as a kid.” He walked over to her, smiling a little, with a light in his eyes that was pure Pauline. “And my father’s kid at that!”
Della chuckled. “You will always be a kid in my heart, Hugh. You and Melissa and Robbie and Jamie. But I know better. Anyway,” she stroked his shoulder and upper arm a second, “you could do a lot worse than being your father’s kid.”
They hugged then. Carrie reappeared with both Brian and Taylor, and the whole group climbed into the Volvo and drove away.
“I can’t believe they didn’t want that armoire,” Rita said.
“You want it in your room?” Della asked.
“You bet.”
“I don’t know why,” Della said before they joined Kat on the porch. “It’s too small to have sex in.”
Pauline Freschatte was my friend, Barbara had written. And like all good friends everywhere, she had an immense capacity for acceptance. Everyone who read her column in this newsletter saw this acceptance. Remember how she always gave you several different ways to finish a project and how she encouraged you to find the way that worked best for you? Remember how she delighted in readers’ suggestions, never claiming any credit for being their inspiration?
We expect our friends to forgive us when we blunder, but we rarely understand that to be our friends, they first must accept us as whatever we are. Pauline was that friend, and we are all poorer for losing her.
Della sat with the pages in her lap, looking out the window of her office. Before Ora and Isaiah had added the second floor, this room had been their bedroom, and it jutted out from the main house to give views of both the river and the street.
Now she looked to the street side and watched one of the Castleburg pickups head toward their gate at the end of the road. She’s right, thought Della. Pauline saw what each one of us was and loved us anyway. Or maybe because of that.
She frowned as a second pickup followed the first. The gate at the end of the road led to a rarely used field. The field and the surrounding hills were what protected the Ladies Farm and Sydonia from the delights of dairy smells. Maybe they’re chopping out the mesquite, Della thought. Maybe they’re going to start grazing cows there. She knew she was just trying to distract herself from the column, because Barbara had recognized something about Pauline that she had felt only vaguely.
I would have gotten to it eventually, Della thought, if I hadn’t let Barbara write the column. Anybody who knew Pauline would recognize it eventually. Barbara’s just had longer to think about it.
It’s funny, though, Della continued to herself. I never thought Barbara read Silver Quest, but she knew all about Pauline’s column. Maybe she read the back issues on the coffee table.
Quickly, Della pulled the story up on the computer and finished reading it there. It took only a few changes before she laid it out in the newsletter. All it needed was a picture.
Hugh Jr. and Melissa had taken most of Pauline’s photographs with them, but there was a large album lying on top of the pile of clothing on the bed in Pauline’s room. Della climbed the stairs and pushed open the wooden door. It had only been a few days since the kids’ visit and, other than Rita’s taking the armoire and moving the writing table to the big office, no one had done anything to the room. Della took the album with her rather than leaf through it there.
She sat on the glider on the front porch, occasionally pushing a toe against the concrete floor to make the thing sway a little. Pauline had been PTA historian for many years, and Della suspected this album was from that period.
The photos were held in place by corner holders, and she began pulling the pictures out and sorting them into stacks according to children. There were lines of kids in vegetable costumes and lines of kids dressed as pioneers. She found both Jamie and Robbie posed in front of a cardboard Alamo, Robbie resplendent in gold braid as Santa Anna, Jamie faking a faint in his ragged Jim Bowie buckskin.
Some pictures were missing, and Della supposed Melissa and Hugh Jr. had removed most of their own. But there were several of Richard’s son—Richard’s and Barbara’s she amended—and a few left of Pauline’s kids. There was even an early one of Kat with Grant, and a later one of her alone.
Toward the back, there were more photos missing. The ones that remained were almost all adults, and Della looked carefully for a good one of Pauline. She could always call Hugh Jr. and borrow one back, but it would mean another day, and she had to get this thing to the printer. “Why didn’t you think of it while they were here?” she asked herself, but there were so many things she hadn’t thought of, it didn’t seem worth pursuing.
Della knew the kids had taken the Sydon House album, the one that documented all the stages of the renovation, but there were a few pictures here of Hugh and Pauline hammering and plastering. She smiled as she pulled one of Rita and Dave, evidently paying a neighborly visit, and then another one of Richard and Barbara on a canoe in the river.
She placed that one on top of a picture of Dickie in a Cub Scout uniform and glanced at it for only a second. I miss you so, she thought, not seeing Barbara in the shot at all.
Surely there’s one of Pauline alone, Della thought, leafing through to the back of the album. Just one that shows her hair in its glory.
She almost skipped the one of Pauline in her bathing suit, but it did show her hair, so Della stopped and picked it up. This must be at Richard and Barbara’s, Della thought, studying the picture of Pauline by the pool. This was before she’d jumped in, and her hair was lifted around her head by the wind as she squinted a little at the camera.
Della held her hand across the bottom part of the picture. If I crop it there, she thought, it will be perfect.
She stared a second longer at the picture, trying to remember the party. Where was I? she wondered. Maybe we hadn’t arrived yet. Tony had just opened the second shop and might have had work to do even on the Fourth of July.
She shrugged. Maybe I was in the kitchen. She remembered that period as an endless parade of afternoons in the kitchen with her friends, working for hours on food that disappeared in minutes. It had been a struggle, she knew, but remembering that time now, it seemed rich with promise and the security of a certain place in a certain world.
Della pulled one or two more photos from the book, including a great one of Rita and her two girls at the Sydonia Peach Festival, then closed the book and stood up. She glanced for a second at the car parked out front. It belonged to the appraiser, who was walking over the propert
y under Kat’s supervision.
Thank God Kat could take care of that. All you need to do, Della informed herself, is scan this photo and get your newsletter to the printer.
Della had the image on her computer screen when Barbara knocked on her open office door. “Do we have any facilities for … are we wheelchair accessible?”
“Babe Didrikson,” Della replied. “It’s on the first floor, and the door’s wide enough. Someone on the phone?”
“Yes, but they’re asking about trails, and activities, I don’t know what else. Is that Pauline?”
“Yeah. I think it’s at your house.” Della pulled the photo itself from the scanner. “Are they holding?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Tell them we’re okay for the whole first floor of the Ladies Farm, plus paved paths down to the river and the crafts barn. And about a quarter of the trail. But we can’t do assistance, like lifting in and out of the tub or anything. We’ve got a bedside commode. And for a longer stay, we can arrange home health care.”
Barbara watched her carefully, as if trying to memorize Della’s words. Nodding, she backed out of the office and padded over to her new desk—the writing table from Pauline’s room—in the big office. Della could hear her on the phone, explaining, clarifying. “And that will be two of you, for four days?”
She’s good on the phone, Della thought. But she wasn’t Pauline, who had possessed personal knowledge of every ailment that struck anyone over forty-five.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Turow,” Barbara announced in triumph as she returned. “Mrs. Turow had hip surgery and she’s still on crutches and in a chair for longer treks. Mr. Turow thinks facials, massage, and a makeover will aid her recovery. Isn’t that sweet?”
Della’s interest in their guests’ lives had diminished to weak curiosity after the first few months at the Ladies Farm, but she understood the fascination. She remembered the first time a couple had had a vocal argument in the Sissy Spacek Suite and for weeks afterward she had agonized over whether they were able to repair the damage to their relationship.