by Pamela Morsi
“Okay,” Carly said. “So you know how they did it. You’ve just got to figure out a way to do the same.”
Amber chuckled humorously. “I don’t think there is much chance that my mom could send me to college. But I was thinking that maybe I could send myself.”
Carly raised a surprised eyebrow. “To college?”
“Community college.” Amber explained. “I saw on the company Web site that they have money to help employees with that. It would take me years and I don’t know for sure that I could make it, but I’d like to try.”
She could tell from Carly’s expression that she was worried.
“So are you thinking to go on part-time?” she asked.
Amber shook her head. “I couldn’t afford to do that. I was thinking that our busiest days around here are the weekends,” she said. “If I worked nine to nine on Saturday and Sunday and a couple of nights during the week, I’d still be full-time and still have days free for classes. I could continue to do the buying, the accounts, the schedule, the payroll. That’s really where you need me most anyway.”
Carly’s brow was furrowing thoughtfully.
“Don’t answer right now,” Amber cautioned. “Think about it.”
Her boss nodded.
Through the rest of the morning, Amber went over and over the conversation in her head. She still didn’t understand herself or what she wanted. But one thing had become clear. If she wanted her own life, then she had to be responsible for making it what she wanted.
She got caught up in a trousseau sale that went on interminably as the mother and daughter argued furiously about what was traditional versus what “all her sorority sisters” got. Amber managed to keep her smile but wanted to shake them both and say, stop this silly bickering! This should be a wonderful experience to remember together, not another thoughtless face-off!
When she finally managed to ring up the sale, which included some of the most beautiful and reasonably priced pieces in the store, neither woman was completely happy.
These two had everything that she and her mother had lost.
But there was something she and Ellen had that these women had missed out on somehow. Amber supposed she wouldn’t have realized that if they’d been able to keep the wonderful life that they’d had.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Metsy said, as she walked by. “Your hunky boyfriend/baby-sitter is up front with the kid.”
Amber glanced in that direction, a smile immediately crossing her face. “Great! Thanks.” Then after a moment’s pause, she added as an afterthought. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Metsy gave her a look. “Girl, I’d get that one pinned down before somebody else beats you to it,” she said.
Amber ignored her and headed to the front of the store to find her daughter.
Jet was wearing a see-through lace nightgown over her Bob the Builder overalls.
“What are you up to?” Amber asked laughing.
The little girl came running. “We’re taking you to lunch again,” Jet answered. “Miss Carly said we could.”
“Oh, she did, did she.” Amber looked over at her.
“Sure, go on,” her boss said. “This pair would probably kidnap you if I didn’t let you go.”
Amber retrieved her purse and Jet put the nightgown back on the rack and the three of them headed out for some soup and salad at the Food Court.
“I take it Wilma’s back at the Empire Bar,” Amber said.
Brent nodded. “I hope she’s not overdoing it,” he said. “But she absolutely insisted and I just couldn’t turn her down.”
“I hope this guy is worth it,” Amber said.
Brent nodded.
“Listen,” he said, a little chagrined. “I want to apologize for my behavior at Earl Abels.”
Amber shrugged it off.
“And the way I was at your house when Wilma came home,” he added.
“Forget it,” Amber told him.
He glanced down at Jet. “At least you know that I only talk to my friends that way. I would never be so pushy with strangers.”
“Only because strangers wouldn’t put up with you,” she pointed out.
He shrugged.
“But you weren’t so far off the mark,” Amber told him. “In fact, I’ve decided not to get the apartment. And I’m thinking about going to community college.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I talked with Carly about it this morning,” she said. “The company has some college assistance in their benefits package.”
“That’s great!” he said.
“Of course, it’s still community college,” she said. “And I’m still a single mother, living with my family.”
Brent shook his head. “Everybody has to start someplace,” he told her.
They went through the serving line and got their food. For a moment, Jet balked, demanding a hot dog. But Amber convinced her that vegetable soup was a better choice.
“But it’s hot outside, Mama,” Jet pointed out.
“And when it’s hot, a bowl of soup will cool you off.”
Jet nodded reluctantly and accepted it.
Brent was obviously not convinced, he whispered to Amber behind Jet’s back. “What kind of nonsense is that?”
She shrugged. “It’s something my mother always told me.”
Ellen had missed her mornings with Mrs. Stanhope. She missed the eastern sunshine, the pleasant conversation and the escape. They sat together in their little garden retreat. Ellen poured the tea and Mrs. Stanhope reflected upon the past. She told a funny story about her and her favorite sister, Irma’s mother, tampering with the elastic on their elder sister’s petticoat. It had broken on perfect cue as the young lady waltzed through the ballroom and caused such a shock to the sister and an amusement to her siblings, that a half century later, Mrs. Stanhope still laughed nearly to tears recounting the incident.
“I am quite myself this morning,” she told Ellen. “I feel quite myself.”
“That’s wonderful,” Ellen said.
Mrs. Stanhope smiled. “I don’t believe wonderful is the most apt description, but I won’t argue.”
The two were thoughtful together for several moments.
“Have I told you about my husband’s death?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “You told me that he died.”
“But did I tell you how he died?” she asked, with a certain tone that indicated she was aware that she had not. “Lyman committed suicide. He hanged himself in the back room of his store.”
“I…I had heard that,” Ellen said.
“Ah…” Mrs. Stanhope nodded. “I’m sure there was a great deal of talk about it. At the time and over the years. Fortunately, I’ve been rather oblivious to that.”
Ellen nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Do you remember the day your husband died?” Mrs. Stanhope asked.
The question, so direct, took Ellen momentarily aback.
“Yes,” she responded, after a moment. “I remember it vividly.”
Mrs. Stanhope just looked at her, so she continued.
“He’d been unconscious most of the day,” Ellen told her. “When he was awake, he’d be suffering in such pain. They’d give him more medicine and he’d be out again.”
Ellen hadn’t thought of that day in so long. Now the image rolled out before her, so clearly, so complete in all its nuances.
“At one point, he was trying to stay awake, trying to be with me,” she said. “He wanted me to stroke his forehead, the way his mother had when he was sick as a child. I did it for what seemed like hours. I thought my arm might fall off, but it gave him so much comfort, I didn’t have the heart to stop. His voice was so croaky and so weak. He asked me to sing to him. I couldn’t think of a song. I must know a million, hymns and Beatles songs and Broadway melodies, but right then, I couldn’t think of anything. ‘What would your mother sing?’ I asked him. He told me, ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ So I sang ‘Jesus Loves Me.’
I sang it and I sang it and I sang it. Even after I realized he was gone. I kept singing it, hoping that wherever he was, he could still hear me.”
Tears pouring down her face, Ellen had closed her eyes. She was not seeing anyone, but the gray, gaunt face of the man she had loved.
She opened her eyes when Mrs. Stanhope clasped her hand.
“Lyman was late coming home,” she said. “I thought he’d forgotten the Gleichmans party. I was completely dressed and ready to go and still he hadn’t shown. Finally, I walked up to the store to get him. I was so annoyed. The whole way I was going over in my mind how very tedious it was to always be home waiting for him. The door was locked and he didn’t answer. I hadn’t passed him on the street, so I knew he must be in the back. I used my key and went inside. I never liked the store when it was dark, so I hurried through toward the light switch in the back room. As soon as I turned it on, I saw him. I didn’t scream right away. It was almost as if I didn’t immediately believe it. But of course, it was true.”
“Yes,” Ellen answered, knowing exactly that feeling. “It’s as if your heart just won’t allow you to believe that it has happened.”
“Sometimes, I still don’t,” Mrs. Stanhope said.
They sat together, silently for long minutes. The tea grew cold. Mrs. Stanhope was gazing into the morning sunshine.
“I can’t bear to let him go,” she said. “It was all such a waste.”
“Yes,” Ellen agreed. “It was such a terrible waste. Sometimes I think I can’t go on living without him.”
“I don’t,” Mrs. Stanhope replied simply.
Ellen understood more than she ever had.
“It was over money,” Mrs. Stanhope said. “Did you know that? That he killed himself over money?”
Ellen nodded.
“He was losing the business. He owed everyone in town. He’d even humbled himself to ask my father for help,” she said. “Papa turned him down.”
Ellen could hear the enduring censure in her voice.
“Papa asked him for collateral and all he had was the acreage that had been his parent’s dairy farm,” she said. “He would have sold it if he could have, but he didn’t have a buyer or the time to wait for one. Papa laughed at him. He told Lyman he had no use for a cow pasture. He was Lyman’s last hope. I told him that we would be all right. That no matter what, at least we’d be together. It wasn’t enough. He took his life three weeks later.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Did he think it would be easier for me to face it all on my own?” she asked. “Probably, he wasn’t thinking at all. I just wish he could have stayed. He couldn’t see what was around the corner. Within a few short years, we were rich.
“I sold the cow pasture that my father didn’t want,” she said. “It made me rich. If Lyman could have waited we would have been fine.”
That thought seemed to disturb her and she gazed into the eastern horizon once more as if mesmerized by it.
“Papa tried to take over my money,” she said abruptly. “Did I tell you that? Papa said I wasn’t competent to manage it.”
Mrs. Stanhope chuckled, but there was more anger in it than humor.
“I bought myself fur coats,” she said. “I bought a dozen at least. Papa had said I couldn’t wear fur, but a rich woman can wear whatever she wants. At the hearing, he talked about my coats, he said the inappropriateness of a woman buying herself fur coats was proof that I wasn’t fit to handle my own affairs. I reminded Judge Witmeyer that I had seen both his wife and his mother at social events in my own home wearing furs.” She laughed. “Papa had never been kind to the judge or his family. I kept control of my money. And I wore those coats every day. If Papa were to see me on the street, I wanted him to see me in one of those coats. Irma says I don’t have to wear them anymore. Papa’s dead now, but sometimes I forget.”
The silence settled in between them once more.
“Do you forget?” Mrs. Stanhope asked Ellen.
Ellen shrugged. “Sometimes I forget the little things,” she said.
Mrs. Stanhope nodded. “Maybe you should try to forget the big things,” she said. “It’s not all that difficult really and it makes life a good deal less painful. You could forget your husband’s death.”
The suggestion surprised Ellen. “I wouldn’t want to forget that,” she said, honestly.
“But I can see that it hurts you so much,” Mrs. Stanhope said.
Ellen nodded. “But for he and I…” she hesitated, not sure how to explain. “It hurts so much, but it was the closest we ever were together. It was the actual moment when our relationship was stripped of every kind of pretense and posture. I believed to the very end that he would live. And he let me believe it, up until that moment. When it was just the two of us, not talking about it, not trying to prepare each other or sustain each other, just two people who were one, going to the brink together.”
“And only one of you came back.”
Ellen nodded. “I had to come back.”
“So now you’ve got to keep going,” Mrs. Stanhope said.
“Yes,” Ellen said.
They sat in silence together for a long time as the sun rose higher on the eastern horizon. Finally Mrs. Stanhope smiled at her and took her hand once more. “I won’t keep you,” she said, brightly. “But do tell Willy and Sis that I have licorice in my kitchen that I am saving just for them.”
Ellen was startled. Mrs. Stanhope had said she was herself this morning. And she still seemed very much in the here and now.
“I’m not Violet,” she told her.
Mrs. Stanhope nodded. “But you could be,” she said. “You remind me of her.”
Ellen smiled and gathered up her things. As she walked toward the garden gate, she felt strangely cheerful. It didn’t make sense, but tears were often cleansing and she genuinely felt better.
She took in a great gulp of air. She had to go on. Even Mrs. Stanhope knew that. It was one foot in front of another until she could see her way through again, but she had to keep going.
“Ellen!”
As she stepped through the gate she was hailed from the porch. Irma stood there. Dressed mannishly in navy blue slacks and an oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, she came down the steps and motioned Ellen over. She was so controlled and forceful that even such a benign gesture seemed like a command. Ellen didn’t even consider ignoring it.
“Good morning,” Ellen said.
Irma returned the greeting.
“I saw you in the garden with Edith,” she said. “You were crying, I was just wondering if there is anything I could do to help.”
“Oh, no,” Ellen answered too quickly, almost embarrassed. “Mrs. Stanhope was…she was herself today and we were talking about our husbands’ deaths.”
“Oh,” Irma said. “All right then, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, it’s fine,” Ellen said. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Edith told me that you were having some legal troubles with your house,” Irma said. “I thought something might have gone wrong with that.”
A very inappropriate burst of humor bubbled to the top and Ellen actually giggled.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s simply that everything has gone wrong with that. I think I’m finally going to have to face the fact that we are going to have to move.”
Irma’s brow furrowed. “That can’t be true,” she said.
“I’m afraid it is,” Ellen told her. “We have a mediation hearing scheduled for tomorrow where it’s to be decided. I found out my lawyer wasn’t dealing straight with me and I fired him. So now I’m going to have to represent my mother myself. I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m going to manage that.”
“A mediation hearing?” Irma repeated.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “Our family and our lawyer is in one room and their family and their lawyer is in another room and a mediation lawyer goes between the two trying to work out a deal.”
“I k
now what a mediation hearing is,” Irma told her, very gently. “I’m a law professor at St. Mary’s University.”
Ellen bit her lower lip to keep her jaw from falling open. “I had no idea,” she said.
“But you don’t need a mediation hearing,” Irma said. “I can’t imagine why one was even set up.”
“My lawyer thought it was the best way to handle it,” Ellen said.
“Who was your lawyer?”
“Marvin Dix.”
Irma tutted and shook her head. “Second-class ambulance chaser,” she said.
Ellen couldn’t argue. “I couldn’t find anybody else,” she said. “I just went through a bankruptcy. I don’t have any money to pay anybody and the kids at legal aid were afraid of the plaintiff’s lawyers.”
“Who are they?”
“Pressman, Yaffe and Escudero.”
Irma raised an eyebrow.
“Pretty formidable, I guess,” Ellen said.
Irma shrugged. “You can be the Chief Justice and if you haven’t got the law on your side you don’t have any better chance of winning than Marvin Dix,” she said. “Come on inside.”
Ellen followed her into the house as Irma continued to ask questions about the specifics.
“So Wilma was legally married to Mr. Post, but he died without making a new will,” Irma stated.
“They were only married about twenty-two months,” Ellen said.
“That doesn’t matter,” Irma said.
“My mother has been married a number of times. I don’t even know how many,” Ellen admitted. “I think the Post family’s intent is to suggest that my mother married their father just to inherit from him.”
“Your mother was married to him,” Irma said. “There wasn’t any fraud or deception perpetrated there.”
“No,” Ellen said. “She married him. I don’t know if she loved him, but she married him.”
Irma smiled at her. “Not loving him has no standing in the law,” she said.
Her office, on the side of the house that overlooked the garden, was woody and masculine, but softened with vases of fresh-cut flowers and crocheted doilies. She offered Ellen a chair and seated herself behind the huge mahogany desk. She retrieved a phone number from her palm pilot and picked up the telephone and dialed.