Heart with Joy

by Steve Cushman

  She turned to me and smiled. “Oh, every couple has problems. Marriage is not easy. The secret, I learned a long time ago, was to say you’re sorry and not get hung up on past mistakes. Just tell the other person, I’m sorry, I screwed up, I forgot to take out the trash, I’m sorry I stayed out late with the guys from work. That takes care of most marital problems. Couples can work through most problems if they really want to.”

  “I don’t know what my parents would apologize to each other for. They don’t, or didn’t, talk much. Mom worked on her novel all the time and Dad worked so much that he was tired by the time he got home. I can’t remember the last time I saw the two of them sit down and talk to each other.”

  “Do you want them back together? Do you want to be a family again?” she asked,

  “Yes.”

  “What about your father, does he?”

  “I guess so. He says he misses her, but he doesn’t do anything.”

  “What would you like him to do?”

  “Drive down to Florida and scoop her up and drive back home.”

  “The caveman approach?”

  We both laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Maybe you should push him, think of it as gently coaxing him into action. Sometimes people need help in the simplest way. Maybe he thinks the thing to do is to just wait her out. And maybe he’s right. I don’t know either of your parents. I’m just saying a gentle push forward can’t hurt.”

  “Maybe we could send her flowers or put an ad in the paper here for someone to run the motel. We could pay to move them down there. Maybe I could write her letters and sign them with Dad’s name.”

  “It might work,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  I heard the buzzing-hum before I actually spotted the hummingbird, a ruby-throated male this time. There was something almost other-worldly about these birds. I figured most people liked them because they were so small, similar to how people like babies because they’re tiny and cute, but for me it was their flight that was amazing. They could fly straight to the feeder, hovering in front of it, dipping their long tongues in and out. It was so smooth, so fluid, hovering back and forth an inch or two and then just lifting up like a helicopter. They seemed more in control of their flight than other birds. I had seen other birds fly full speed toward something, or into thick brush, and then veer away at the last second, but none of it looked as smooth as this.

  When the hummingbird flew away, up over her shrubs, I figured it was time to get going. “Have you looked in on the nest?”

  “Not today.”

  I walked over to the nest and climbed up on the bucket. I could hear their slight peep-peep calls, asking for food. They were getting more feathers and starting to look like birds.

  I helped her up and held onto her arm the whole time she stood on the bucket. “They look good,” she said, stepping down.

  “How much longer until they fly away?”

  “I’d say a few days now.”

  “Have a good day, Mrs. Peters.”

  “I already have,” she said.

  And while I didn’t say it out loud, I thought, me too.

  27

  “He died today.”

  For some reason, I knew Dad was referring to that patient, Mr. Black, he’d told me about the other night.

  “How?” We were sitting at the table, eating chicken Marsala, after our nightly run. The mushrooms were swimming in the Marsala wine sauce and I made a mental note not to use so much wine next time. The chicken was tender and practically fell apart in my mouth.

  “His lungs filled with fluid. It happens when these people lay in bed for a couple days. The man couldn’t walk, so he was just kind of stuck in his bed.”

  “Tell me a story about someone who got better and left the hospital,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not everyone who goes into the hospital dies.”

  He took a bite of his chicken. “You’re right. Let’s see. One that made it. There’s been hundreds, thousands over the years.”

  “Tell me about a patient you thought was going to die but who ended up walking out of the hospital. We could use some good news for a change.”

  He closed his eyes, searching his memory. “I remember this guy named Charlie Shue. He was in his early thirties, but he’d already had open-heart surgery once and the doctors said if they didn’t operate again soon he wasn’t going to make it.

  “By the time we got him up on the floor his lungs were filling up with fluid. His legs were swollen. But we got him into physical therapy, walked him everyday, and he started to get better. After four days on our floor, he was in good enough shape for the surgery. A week later, I was walking down to the cafeteria to eat lunch and I saw him leaving the hospital. There, that’s your good news story.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  After I set my dishes in the sink, I asked, “Do you want Mom back?”

  “We’ve talked about this before. Yes, I want her to come back.”

  “Well what are you doing about it?”

  “I’m giving her time, space, to figure out what she wants. I hope she’ll figure out it’s me, us, that she wants.”

  “I think you need to do more than that.” Even I was surprised at myself for saying this, but I’d been thinking a lot about it and felt pretty sure it was going to take something more than time to get

  Mom back here.

  “You might be right.”

  “We could put a full-page ad in the Venice paper, a picture of us, saying come home. Or we could rent a billboard down there, somewhere she’d see it, asking her to come back.”

  He laughed in a kind way. “You’re right. I’ve got to do something. Give me some time, a week or so, and then I’ll decide what to do.”

  “Next Wednesday or I’ll decide.”

  He laughed. “You’re killing me. Yes, by next Wednesday.”

  I started loading the dishes in the dishwasher, sure my mother would be calling soon.

  She did and I answered on the second ring. We talked for a minute while my father finished doing the dishes. Then I said, “Mom, I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Here talk to Dad.” Before she could say anything or protest, I handed my father the phone and walked into the bathroom.

  I sat on the toilet lid for a few minutes. When I walked out to check, my father was sitting at the table, talking to my mother. He laughed at something she was saying. As I headed back to my bedroom, I figured at least I’d got them talking.

  28

  I was in the kitchen, the warm scent of salmon filling the room, when the telephone rang. The only phone calls we ever got were from Mom, and since this was a Thursday I didn’t think it was her. Checking the caller ID, I saw it was Dad’s work number.

  “Hey, Julian.”

  “What’s up, Dad?”

  “I’m going to be late. Phil, my relief, called in with car trouble. Go ahead and eat. I should be home by eight. Guess we won’t get our run in tonight.”

  “I’ll put the food in the microwave for when you get home.”

  “That’s okay. One of the docs ordered us pizza. I’ll see you in a while then.”

  I hung up, disappointed. I was making a new dish, one I had seen Rachael make a couple days earlier. It was salmon and spinach with a butter sauce. It looked pretty easy to make. You cooked the salmon in a pan for six minutes on each side while in another pan you sautéed the spinach down with a little olive oil. I had been looking forward to trying it out on Dad.

  It was only a little after five, so it was possible Mrs. Peters hadn’t eaten yet. I removed the spinach from the heat, turned the stove off, and walked over to her house. She answered the door in a pair of white pants and a blue button-up shirt. She had on reading glasses and her white hair fell straight down her back. “This is a surprise,” she said.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “A strange question, most people start with hello,” she said. “But no, I haven’t eaten yet.
”

  “Come over then. I made dinner and Dad has to stay late at work.”

  “Two minutes,” she said, then shut the door.

  Back in my kitchen, I put an inch of butter in the microwave for a minute, then set two equal mounds of spinach in the center of each plate. The salmon went on top of the spinach, off-centered just a little. The bright green and orange looked good together. As I drizzled some of the melted butter on top of each piece of fish, the doorbell rang.

  Mrs. Peters held a pie pan, covered in tinfoil. “Hope you like apple pie.”

  “Who doesn’t?” I asked, stepping aside, so she could come in.

  “Oh people will surprise you, young man. They certainly will.”

  Was she talking about the fact that I’d knocked on her door and invited her for dinner? “Thanks for bringing the pie.”

  “Always come to a party bearing gifts,” she said, handing me the pie. “Put this in the oven on 200, it’ll warm up nice.”

  When I set the plates on the kitchen table, she said, “Let’s eat outside.”

  It sounded like a good idea. It was a nice evening, the first week of May and sixty degrees. The mosquitoes hadn’t arrived yet. After we sat down, I waited for Mrs. Peters to pick up her fork before I did. She hesitated. I wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

  “It sure looks good,” she said.

  It did look good, like something you’d see on a cooking show.

  “You made this?”

  I nodded.

  “Impressive. I didn’t know you were a cook.”

  “People will surprise you,” I said.

  She laughed. “Yes, they will.”

  I waited for her to take the first bite. “Umm,” she said.

  It was pretty good. The butter was strong, and pleasant, but not overpowering. “Not bad,” I said.

  “Not bad, my foot. This is good. I think we’ve discovered your talent,” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not kidding, Julian. This is the best meal I’ve had in years.

  You’ve got a gift.”

  I was embarrassed and wanted to change the subject. “What do you usually eat?”

  “Sometimes I make a big pan of lasagna and eat on that for a couple days.”

  “What were you going to eat tonight?”

  “A chicken pot pie TV dinner.”

  “I’m glad you could come over,” I said.

  “Me too.” She looked at the pot in the center of the table. It was the one I’d given her and she’d returned with flowers in it. “You watering this?”

  “Everyday.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself.

  “So are you ready for some pie?” I went in to get us some, adding a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. The warmth of the pie helped it melt nicely.

  As I set the bowl in front of Mrs. Peters, she said, “You know girls love a man who can cook.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I tried to think of someone I’d like to cook for. Lucy Sanborn came to mind. I imagined her sitting across the table from me, smiling as she ate. But, of course, I doubted I’d ever get a chance to cook for her. I thought about that Tia girl and her cooking club.

  “So no prospects?”

  “Not really.”

  “A good looking young man like you. A lover of birds, a chef on the rise,” she said.

  “What do you say to girls? I mean I don’t even really know how to talk to them.”

  “You just say hi, I’m Julian. That should be enough.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “But it is. We don’t need fancy lines.”

  Sure, I thought, you have no idea how hard it is to talk to girls. “What did your husband say to you when you met him?”

  She looked away, out into the darkness of the backyard. When she didn’t say anything for almost a minute, I considered changing the subject, apologizing for being so nosy.

  “That’s all he said: ‘Hi, I’m Roger.’ He was the landscaper at Lindley Elementary when I first started teaching there. I’d seen him around a few times. He would turn the mower off whenever a group of students walked by. It was a small thing but it’s the small things that make a person. Like you inviting me here for dinner.

  “It was my first teaching job. He was taking night classes over at the community college and trying to save enough money so he could go to NC State and get his accounting degree. One day, I was at the grocery store, picking through the squash and zucchini. The next thing I knew about a dozen squash fell on the floor. It was a Saturday, a busy shopping day, and there were a lot of people standing around. I was embarrassed. I bent over and started putting them back and then this man was next to me, helping me place them back on the stand. We were on our knees, picking the squash up, when he said ‘Hi, I’m Roger.’”

  I wondered what I’d do in that situation. I hoped I would do the same thing.

  “So trust me, that’s all you have to say. Hi, I’m Julian.”

  I had been so involved in her story that I hadn’t heard my father pull in the driveway, hadn’t heard the front door open. I practically jumped out of my seat when he opened the sliding glass doors.

  “Dad, you’re home.”

  “Phil made it in. His girlfriend drove him.” Dad looked from me to Mrs. Peters, at the empty plates in front of us, as if he were trying to figure out what exactly was going on here.

  Mrs. Peters said, “Hi. Evelyn Peters from next door.”

  He shook her hand. “Jim Hale.”

  When my father looked at me again, I said, “When you said you weren’t coming home, I invited Mrs. Peters over.”

  “I see,” he said, then disappeared back inside.

  I had no idea what was going to happen next.

  “Should I go?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, Dad walked back outside and set the rest of the pie and ice cream on the table. He asked if either of us wanted anymore—we both did and he served us each—and then filled his own plate. There I was eating with my father and Mrs. Peters, the two people I’d spent the most time with since Mom left. I wanted to take a picture of the three of us and send it to Mom because I doubted she’d believe me if I told her about this evening.

  “So Julian tells me he’s been helping you with your birds and yard,” Dad said.

  “He’s been a great help. And I just discovered what an amazing chef he is.”

  “When Sandy moved to Florida, he just took over. I don’t know where he gets it from.”

  “Mom taught me a lot,” I said.

  “He does have a talent for it,” Mrs. Peters said.

  “His mother is running her parents’ motel down there,” my father said.

  “Sometimes distance isn’t a bad thing,” she said, glancing at my father, then turning away.

  “Sometimes,” Dad said. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Forty years or so.”

  “You must have seen a lot of families in this house, over the years.”

  While she thought about it, I heard a Carolina chickadee, a titmouse, a blue jay, and a crow.

  “Four,” she said. “All of them have had children, at one time or another. There were the Hogans, the McIntyres, the Cobles, and the Davises. The Davises were my favorite. They had four kids, two boys and two girls, all of them blonde like their father. They were busy kids, always selling something for the Boy Scouts or Girl Scouts.”

  It was surprising to hear about other lives, and families, in our house. Of course, I knew people had lived here before us but to hear there were so many other kids before me was kind of cool.

  Mrs. Peters stood up. “It’s getting late. I’d better get going, almost time for the Price Is Right.”

  Dad and I stood up. “Thanks again, young man. Amazing.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Dad said. “And for keeping Julian busy.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, waving at him.

  I walked Mrs. Peter
s down the steps, holding her forearm. I spotted some motion out of the corner of my eye. When I turned, I realized Dennis was standing by my father’s truck. For the briefest moment, I let go of her arm but then held it again.

  At her front door, she held out her arms, reached over and hugged me. She’d never hugged me before, but I didn’t pull away. “See you tomorrow,” she said, then walked inside and shut the door.

  As I turned around and faced Dennis, all the good feelings of the evening started to slip away. “What’s up, Hale?”

  “Nothing.”

  I started to walk away, trying to ignore him.

  “What are you doing with that old lady?”

  I turned and charged at him, pushed him to the ground. “Go screw yourself, Dennis. She’s a nice lady. Leave me alone and leave her alone. You only come over here when your real friends, or your girlfriend, are busy.”

  He made it to his feet. I could see his hands were balled up. And while I hadn’t been in a fight in years, I was ready. If he said one more thing about her I’d punch him.

  “I don’t understand you, man,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t. You don’t know what it’s like to come home everyday hoping to see your mother’s car in the driveway. You don’t know anything about my life. So go home to your parents and your happy life.”

  If he said anything, I didn’t hear him because I turned and walked up my back steps. My father was filling the dishwasher. He looked up at me as I walked in and shut the sliding glass door behind me.

  “Everything, okay?” he asked. I must have looked upset.

  “Fine, Dad,” I said and headed back to my bedroom, slammed the door shut. I heard my father walking down the hall. He stopped in front of my door. And while I didn’t know what I’d say if he knocked and asked what was wrong, I desperately wanted him to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he walked to the bathroom to take his shower.

  29

  Entering the grocery store, I looked over at the row of registers and was relieved when I didn’t spot Tia. It wasn’t that I didn’t like talking to her. She seemed nice enough, and I appreciated her inviting me over to cook with her, but each time I spoke to her it was getting more difficult, as if I were slowly realizing she was someone I would like to see more than once a week.