Bed & Breakfast

by Lois Battle

  That night, as Josie had tried to sleep on Sam’s living-room couch, she’d heard him get up to take Cam water and soda crackers to settle her stomach, heard them talking quietly, and had a surge of optimism. They were going to be all right.

  The next morning they’d gathered at the courthouse: Cam quaky, Sam resolute, Reba sailing through with a quirky smile, Cheryl wiping away sentimental tears, and an old Navy pal of Sam’s, appropriately called Buddy, providing the ballast. They’d had an elegant lunch at the Ritz-Carlton, Cam hoeing into the salmon and caviar, Reba making wisecracks, Sam looking relieved, and Buddy so blissfully unaware after the first bottle of champagne that he’d made a pass at freckle-faced Cheryl.

  Sam was treating Reba and Cheryl to a few nights at the hotel, and Josie was supposed to stay at Sam’s apartment, unpacking and arranging Cam’s things while Cam and Sam went on a two-week honeymoon in Italy. But that very evening, Dozier had called to say Edna had been admitted to the hospital.

  “Cam and her husband offered to give up their honeymoon and come help, but Josie told them not to because it didn’t look that serious,” Josie heard Mary say. “I mean, who would have thought that Edna was in bad shape? Because if there was ever anybody who’d tell you how they were feeling, it was Edna. But nobody, not even her husband, guessed that she was ill.”

  “What did she die of?” Esther asked.

  “Perforated peptic ulcer,” Mary explained. “She was only in the hospital for a week or so, and Josie was planning to bring her home and nurse her here, but then complications set in and she went”—Mary snapped her fingers—“like that.”

  “Edna was always decisive,” Peatsy said. “I have to congratulate her on a nice, clean exit.”

  Josie braced her hands on the dining-room table and bent her head. She may have been clairvoyant where Peatsy’s heart attack had been concerned, but she hadn’t even suspected that Edna had any major health problems, though when she and Dozier had spoken to Edna’s doctor, they’d found out that Edna had been under treatment for some time. Also, unbeknownst to either of them, Edna had already made a living will. The night before she was to have surgery she’d told Josie that she was ready to go and asked her to take care of Dozier. Josie had put her arms around her and told her, as she’d fully believed, that she was being silly, she’d be up and around in no time. Just as Josie’d predicted, the operation was pronounced a success. There’d been talk of releasing Edna within days. Then pneumonia had set in.

  It had all happened so fast that Josie had been in a state of dazed disbelief. Seventy-two hours of round-the-clock vigils, Edna surrounded by hissing respirators, multicolored electronic signals, beeping monitors ... then the final word coming around dawn, no more than a half hour after she, Dozier, and Edna’s son, Skip, her daughter, Marilyn, and her husband had left the hospital and come back to her place after an all-night watch. They’d been in Josie’s kitchen, deciding whether she should make them an early breakfast or if they’d be better off getting some sleep when the phone had rung and the doctor had told them.

  Dozier had been immobilized with shock and grief; neither Marilyn nor Skip knew their way around Beaufort anymore, so Josie had taken over. It was a time of chores and crowds, burial arrangements to be made, food to be prepared, hands to be shaken.

  It wasn’t until a day after the funeral, when she’d woken up in the middle of the night and thought, “I must remember to tell Edna . . . ,” that reality had hit her. She’d cried out her sister’s name in the pleading voice she’d had over sixty years ago, when Edna would race ahead and leave her behind on the way home from school. Edna hadn’t stopped then and Josie’s sobs couldn’t bring her back now.

  The next morning, when Dozier came over for breakfast, she told him. “I know,” he said, draining his coffee. “Several times a day I remind myself to tell her this or that. Even found myself calling out to tell her I was home when I came back from the gas station yesterday. Marilyn was upstairs going through some of Edna’s things and she heard me. She got all shook up. Thought I was losing it. You know, Marilyn’s got that marvelous practical streak Edna has—I mean had—there I go, getting my tenses mixed up again . . .”

  “Oh, that happens to everyone.”

  “I know that. But Marilyn . . . as I was saying, she’s got Edna’s practical streak, but sometimes she lacks imagination.”

  And sensitivity, Josie thought. The idea that anyone, especially his daughter, would be critical of Dozier, who’d borne up with such manly grace! “She ought to realize that when you’ve lived with someone for more’n half your life . . .” Hearing incipient indignation in her voice, she said more softly, “I don’t know if you ever get over it. Bear’s been gone all these years and sometimes I still hear him in my head. Or I’ll be at the store and see something he’d fancy, like a Porterhouse steak, and I’ll almost put it in my shopping cart.”

  “Would you please top off this coffee?”

  “I was about to mix up a batch of blueberry pancakes. Will they all be coming over for breakfast soon?”

  “I don’t think so. Skip’s tribe are packing up. Said they’d like to get on the road back home. But Skip’s staying for another day so he can talk to the lawyer about the lease on Edna’s shop.”

  Josie noticed how tired he looked. “I’m glad he’s going to take care of that for you.”

  “And Marilyn says she’d going down to the shop to help the girl take inventory.”

  I bet she’ll take more than inventory, Josie thought as she refilled his cup. “And you?”

  “You know what I’d really like to do?”

  “Eat a stack of blueberry pancakes?”

  “Sure. And then . . .” He touched her hand as she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “If the weather holds, I went by Buds’N Bloom yesterday. Walked around their greenhouse for damned near an hour, so I felt obliged to buy something.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Hell, Josie, I went wild. Bought every new strain of spring bulb they had. Spent about a hundred dollars.” He shook his head and passed his hand through his hair. “A hundred dollars! Bought tulips, iris, narcissus. Partly bought them because of their names: Gold-throated Trumpet, Lady Murasaki’s Dream.”

  She nodded. “I bought a lipstick a couple of months ago just because it was called Spiced Peach.”

  “So. Think you’d have time to garden this afternoon?”

  “Prob’ly. I’m expecting some guests around two.”

  Dozier stared into the mid-distance and she thought he was going to say something profound, but after some rumination he said, “You’ve lost a lot of money on your guests over the last couple of weeks. And the money is the least of what I owe you.”

  She said, “Pay it no never-mind, Dozier,” though, in fact, the bills had been piling up.

  He sighed. “Would you think it was awful if I said I’ll be glad when the kids and grandkids are gone?”

  “I surely would.” She feigned shock, then smiled. “But I’d completely understand. I’ll fix those pancakes now.”

  She was as relieved as he when Skip, Marilyn, and their families left. At Dozier’s request, she and Cuba went over to pack up Edna’s clothing and other belongings. They made four piles: one for things that Dozier might, upon consideration, want to keep, the other three for her, Cuba, and the Goodwill. “Looks pretty well scavenged already,” Cuba grunted, handing Josie a jewelry box as they stood in Edna and Dozier’s bedroom. “And,” Cuba added dryly, rummaging through the closet, “I see Miss Edna’s fur coat and hat be gone.” Josie said it was only natural that Marilyn would want most of her mother’s things. Cuba hunched her shoulders and said, “Uh-huh. Just wonder if when we be cleaning out the sideboard in the dining room, we don’t find Mr. Dozier be eatin’ wif’ plastic knifes and forks.” Josie laughed and said that was a possibility, but she knew Dozier wouldn’t care. Lots of people were fond of declaring that they didn’t care about material things, but, she knew, Dozier really didn’t care. Though he’
d worked like a demon to made a success of the lumber business he’d inherited, he’d always handed over the bulk of his earnings to Edna, and just kept out enough for books and tools.

  Josie had found little she’d wanted in the treasures her sister had amassed. Edna, thinking reminders of the past were sentimental, had already given her most of Mawmaw’s memorabilia. Josie took only a tarnished gold brooch of hands clasped in friendship (which, apparently, Marilyn had found unworthy), and a box of early photographs, which Edna had always been meaning to put into albums, but never had. Sorting through them, she’d come across one that made her tear up: she, Edna, and Mawmaw, at the beach, in old-fashioned bathing suits; Mawmaw, holding an umbrella, squinting angrily against the sun; Edna (who must’ve been around eleven), protected by Mawmaw’s arm, bumps showing through the chest of her tank suit; and she—Josie—standing one step behind, holding a sand pail close to her crotch, looking isolated and confused. She kept that photo, but pasted the others into an album, which she put on a top shelf in Dozier’s library, thinking Dozier might give it to his grandchildren.

  Following his children’s departure, Dozier rattled around, tying up the loose ends of Edna’s business, paying off doctors and lawyers. Determined not to give in to grief, or to lean on Josie as his sole source of companionship, he made a concerted effort to keep busy: he joined the Friends of the Library, volunteered to teach a class on furniture restoration at the Episcopal church, drove up to visit Marilyn and her family, but came back after less than a week, telling Josie, “They eat in front of TV.” He turned down countless dinner invitations from divorcees and widows (Peatsy chief among them); then accepted an invitation to a college reunion, but decided not to go at the last minute. Josie noted, with some concern, that he was taking afternoon naps and wasn’t always clean-shaven when he came though her back door for breakfast, though, trying to be cheerful, he usually greeted her with, “Wake up and smell the coffee.” Since there was just the two of them, they often talked about all the others—the parents, mates, and children—the living and the dead who’d shaped their lives. Like most men, Dozier was reluctant to start intimate conversations, but if she slid into them slowly, he’d join in, and seemed to find some relief in talking. Sometimes they’d have tea, or even a drink, in the late afternoon, and if she didn’t have guests, she’d usually convince him to stay for supper. More rarely, he’d treat her to hamburgers at Shoney’s, and once in a while, they’d dress up and drive into Savannah for Sunday brunch at the DeSoto Hilton.

  In late May, Lila, being on the Arts Council, gave them some tickets for the Spoleto Festival. Thinking it would be too tiring to drive back to Beaufort after a full day and evening in Charleston, they decided to spend the night at a hotel, and, shocked by inflated rates for the Festival, concluded that it was only common sense to reserve a single room. With twin beds.

  The weather was balmy and they were so elated to be going on a trip, if only seventy miles away, that they acted like tourists, taking a carriage tour and smiling at one another as their guide, a hefty young woman in white shirt and too-tight gray slacks that were supposed to be a replica of a Confederate uniform, told cute but inaccurate stories about the city and the Civil War. They went to an art show they both thought was trash, then walked through an old church graveyard, wandering away from one another, Dozier drawn to the monuments of famous men, Josie bending low to see the small, overgrown headstones that marked the graves of children. As the sun was starting to go down, the sound of an organ playing Bach’s Toccata and Fugue drew them into the empty church. They sat in a back pew, the marvelous music swirling about them. Knowing that they had dinner reservations, and remembering how uncomfortable any departure from a planned schedule had made Bear (unless he was off on one of his cut-loose toots), she gave Dozier a questioning look. “It’s like a command performance,” he whispered. She nodded agreement and sat back, relishing the music and watching the light change in the stained-glass windows. Dozier was so easy, so spontaneous. It was like being with your best friend. But not quite.

  They stayed for the entire rehearsal, looking up and nodding a speechless thanks to the organist as he’d packed up his scores. Since they’d gotten back to the hotel late, whatever embarrassment they might have felt changing into their evening clothes had been ignored in the rush to get to the jazz concert on time.

  After the concert they’d shuffled their way out of the departing crowd. “Nothing like a concert of Duke Ellington hits,” she’d said. “That sax player—”

  “He was good, but that organ music this afternoon,” he’d said, taking her arm, “you can’t beat serendipity. Would you like to go to that restaurant Lila recommended?”

  “Not unless it’s in the next block” she told him. She was wearing the teal blue jersey dress with matching heels that she’d worn to Cam’s wedding. “My belt already feels too tight and my feet are killing me.”

  “Heard the food at the hotel is good. Shall we just relax and have room service?”

  “I haven’t had room service in—not years, decades. In fact I’ve only had it about three times in my life.”

  “Then let’s do room service.”

  She’d gone in to the bathroom and changed into her nightdress and robe while he’d made the call, then she’d sat on one of the beds, self-consciously reading the concert program while he’d gone in to change. Silly to feel self-conscious, she told herself. He’d seen her in her robe and nightdress countless times, but there was something about hearing a man undress in the bathroom of a hotel room . . . When the waiter arrived, they drew chairs up to the little table and lifted the bell-shaped covers from the plates. Shrimp and crab salad, oysters (both Casino and Rockefeller), hot French bread, a bottle of Chardonnay. “Perfect,” she told him. They clinked glasses. He gave her a smile she could feel right between her breasts. The food was delicious and she was mellow and sleepy after a single glass of wine. He smiled at her again when she covered a yawn, and said, “I can’t think of when I’ve had a more perfect day.” Their eyes met and held, affection inviting touch, but This man is your sister’s husband—so quick it was more subliminal message than thought—flashed through her. She looked away, and felt something like a reprieve when he asked, “Mind if I watch the late news.”

  “Of course not,” she said, and went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and took off her makeup. He sat near the TV, the volume turned low. She got into her bed without saying anything and closed her eyes. After a while he turned off the TV and got into his bed. He knew she wasn’t asleep because he reached across the space between them. She took his hand, squeezing it tight before releasing it and turning onto her side. Each knew what the other was thinking and feeling; they didn’t need words.

  As if by mutual agreement they saw less of one another during the ensuing months, though they still worked in their yards together, digging up the spring flowers—the best showing ever, Josie winning a prize at the garden club for Lady Murasaki’s Dream—and planting summer herbs and vegetables. Agreeing that it was uncivilized to eat alone, they still shared breakfasts, oftentimes with Josie’s guests. But, increasingly, Dozier broke down and started to accept dinner invitations, even to Peatsy’s. When Josie said it had been at least a decade since she’d been invited to Peatsy’s for dinner and teased him about being an eligible bachelor, he said, looking wise and blank as an owl, “You gotta eat somewhere.” She noticed, however, that he always came home nights, because she could see the ghostly blue glow of the television in his living-room window as he watched the late news. Sometimes she was tempted to go over, but she resisted the impulse.

  Then, one evening in mid-September ... it was after seven and the sun still hadn’t gone down. The humidity was so heavy it felt like a blanket. She had no guests, so she turned off the air conditioner, not just to conserve on the electric bill but because she wanted to. Though she was consciously grateful for all modern conveniences, especially air-conditioning, there was something about being without
it that brought back sensations of her youth. She took a shower, dusted herself with talcum, put on fresh underwear and a loose dress, pinned her damp hair to the top of her head, but her skin was pleasantly moist with perspiration by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. Not wanting to deal with neighbors who might be out for a stroll, she decided not to sit on the front veranda, but found her palmetto fan and went into the back garden, settling into the hammock. The air was dense but sweet with honeysuckle and jasmine and she swung gently, thinking how strange it was that one changed so much on the outside while the inner self remained essentially the same. She was in a thoughtful, sultry haze, content to be alone, but not at all surprised when she heard Dozier cutting across the lawn, saying, “Only way to get a breath of air is to go out to the beach. Want to come?”