by Grace Sammon
“The house looks quite good. Do you not think? S.”
“Nothing short of amazing. Thank you and Roy for getting this done.”
“So, did you have a good night ;-) S.”
“Yes, very. I am so glad you are both OK. I was scared, just reading the texts. I will see you tomorrow. Can’t keep my eyes open. Love you.”
the naming
W
aking up in my bed feels as lavish as falling asleep in it. Roy’s “parlor trick” of a make-over has made it impossible to stay camped out on the first floor any longer. I’ve officially been reinstated in a proper bed. Clever man.
Getting up I remake the bed, smoothing the comforter, feeling the richness of the quilt my mother made beneath my fingers. I go quickly through the mail and walk through my greatly transformed house admiring Roy’s work, the neatness, order, and the cleanliness he’s brought to it. Roy has pre-set my coffee maker and the strong smell of rich, shade-grown, home-brewed Tanzanian coffee fills my kitchen and mug. A small dusting of snow has blanketed the neighborhood, leaving it looking unspoiled and new and the house feeling cozy. Checking the notes I made before the trip, I decide that I need to be thinking most about “wrong-headedness” before returning to The Grange.
Catching a look of my reflection in the mirror, I have to admit, but maybe not to Sonia, that I finally feel more comfortable in the Sonia-esque running outfit. Checking that the snow has mostly left the sidewalks and streets, I am eager to run, I pull up the lightweight ankle support, and caress Adam’s note on the back of the door. Closing it behind me, my rock-star mom iPod strapped to my arm, earbuds in, I set out to run, focusing on “wrong-headedness.”
It feels good to be able to keep a steady pace after so many weeks. Waiting at a stop light, running in place, smiling, I notice my footprints in the dusting of snow, so temporary. Africa seems so far away, yet I can still feel the outlines of the footprints on the ridges of my fingers.
The run, as it did in the old days, helps me sort things out. Clearly, the stereotyping of The Grange women and my pre-conceived notions need to stop. I think that I basically have to simply experience them, stay in the moment with them, and see where this goes. The big takeaway to the wrongheadedness is that they themselves don’t think they are “done.” And, maybe I’m not either.
After the run and a quick shower, I decide to head to The Grange to see the results of the move into the new house and, in truth, to do my own lobbying for my suggested house name, The Eves. Before I go, and having no desire to actually grocery shop, I find the jar of beans from the M and M, put together the ingredients, pull out some frozen chicken, and toss it all together in a slow cooker. Assuring Gabler that I won’t be late tonight, I check her food and water, and I text Roy. “Let me treat you to a very simple dinner tonight. Bean soup, leftover garlic bread and salad, and a good beer. My place, 7:00.”
With my small gifts, the quilt squares, and my notes, I take the comfortably familiar route to The Grange. Unsure of where everyone will be this morning, I decide to head to the old house first. When I enter the side door, I find Tia alone in the kitchen. She genuinely welcomes me back as I give her one of the bags of coffee. Immediately, I notice that except for the dining table, the kitchen has been all but cleared out. Gone are the Hopi jar and spoons.
Tia looks out of place. I ask, “Are you OK?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she answers, looking bewildered. “Suddenly, the whole new house seems like a very bad idea. I haven’t said as much to CC. It would break her heart to think I didn’t love everything about it. I actually do love everything about it, except it’s not here, it’s not home. When I lie in bed at night, or in the quiet of the day, like just now, I can almost hear the voices of my ancestors and all that came before me. My parents made them so real to me that I feel they are still here. I can tell you about almost every meal that was served on that table. I can tell you who fell down the side steps. I can tell you whose hearts were broken and who was overjoyed at what news. Mostly, there is something about being in the house you were born in, the house where your mother died. It’s ridiculous I know, we are moving just up the cliff a bit, but I feel like I’m leaving my mother behind. I don’t want to.”
She looks up to me with pleading, tear-filled eyes. If I had either the power to let her stay or the power to bring Joan back, her wish would be granted. But I lack both the words and the power to comfort this ache.
“Tia. I am so sorry. I remember when my mother died, my dad stood in the kitchen and said over and over, If I just keep everything as it is, it will be OK. I don’t think that ever worked for him, but I so understand what you are feeling. Your dad reminds me so much of mine. The first time I met him in your mom’s studio he asked me not to touch anything. I knew he wanted to keep everything the same and he thought that would make everything, somehow, OK.
“When my dad died, I had to close the house and sell it. Like this, it was my childhood home. To this day, one of my favorite going-to-bed pastimes is imagining going up the driveway to the house, opening the front door and going through each room. I visualize everything, where it was, what it looked like—a small Lenox swan in the living room, cream-colored canisters in the kitchen, a lamp from India on the dining room sideboard, the smell of my father’s coat in the hall closet. I imagine going into each room and visiting again. I see my mother ironing in the basement, hear my father playing Burl Ives, see my cousin’s wedding. What’s most remarkable is that in my mind I can do this at any period of time and multiple times simultaneously. I can have my twelve- and fourteen-year-old cousins playing baseball in the backyard at the same time their older versions are helping me put in a car stereo system in the garage, and still older versions of all three of us sneaking drinks in the basement while we have big, lofty discussions. I visit when my bedroom was pink and when it was blue. When the kitchen was paneled or when it was wall papered. I can call up the smallest detail—when the corner of the living room had a black-and-white TV with the rabbit-eared antenna, when it housed the huge Hammond B3 organ, and when it held the china cabinet. I can line up each of the cars we owned over sixty years and imaginatively park them in the driveway as if they are still there. With each image comes a flood of different memories and sensations. We ate Eskimo pies in front of the black-and-white TV, I listened to my cousin and dad play the organ, and I can feel the weight of the china, and hear the sound of it being put away after a Sunday dinner.
You are just going up the cliff a bit, but I know what it is like when you take that last personal item out of the house and pull the door closed behind you. You can come back here. You are leaving your mom and all the others here to greet you only when you imagine them. We’re all different, but maybe while the memories are still fresh you can recreate the house and all the pieces for you to revisit anytime you want.”
“I like the imagery, Jessica. In truth, I’m surprised I feel this way. I simply don’t want to go, but that ship has sailed. Seriously, thanks. What you said helps me understand my dad. I’ve been so frustrated with his obstreperousness about the move. He’s insisting on keeping mom’s art room exactly the same. He knows we need to start total renovations on this place. But he did let us move one of her two chairs over to The Eves solarium but was insistent that everything else stays in place. I’ve been mad that he wants to keep this place a freakin’ museum or shrine to her. I’ve been so caught up in all of this that I violated my own personal mantra, ‘seek first to understand.’ Thanks. Jessica, I think I get it now.”
What? Did she just say The Eves? My heart jumps for a second. I’m just about to ask her when Tobias comes in.
“Get what now?” Tobias asks as he rounds the corner from Joan’s studio.
“Nothing dad. I just love you and I’m sorry I wasn’t as patient as I could have been during this whole move, and for a while now.”
Tia plants a kiss on him as he passes her coming towards me, arms outstretched, welcomi
ng me home. “Let me hug you girl! That was one amazing trip you took. Joan and I always intended to go on safari, but never made it. I’ll want to hear everything. I’ll drive you up to The Eves and we can leave Tia to finish things up here. Tia, child, do not touch one thing in your mother’s room.”
He winks at me and still has one arm around me. I love the sense of it. Tia looks at him and is about to say something when I look beseechingly at her to let it rest, to understand.
“Thanks for the coffee, too, Jessica,” she says as our eyes meet in agreement. “Why don’t you take it up to The Eves with you and brew some for my dad.”
Still from within the comfort of Tobias’ arm I look at both of them and ask, “Did you really both refer to the new house as The Eves? I thought a decision wasn’t being made until next week on Tobias’ birthday. Are you really taking the name, calling it ‘The Eves’?”
Tobias speaks first. “It really wasn’t even much of a decision. Almost as soon as we saw the submission, we all got it. I think we all loved it for so many, and different reasons. We liked the play on words between the eaves of the house and the lovely virginal Eve-like women.” He looks at Tia, knowing he is riling her. She, unrestricted by me, rolls her eyes.
“We probably won’t tell Sonia until next week. We’ve been enjoying her lobbying, bringing food, making more visits than normal, trying to teach us all a bit of Spanish so ‘Casa Verde’ rolls off the tips of our tongues. None of us is above being pampered a bit. Plus, in truth, as Tia says, it’s fun to mess with her. That girl really does believe she can control the world and, while she does a pretty good job of it, it’s nice every once in a while, to remind her that none of us does.”
Tia picks up where Tobias leaves off. “The house became The Eves from the moment we read it, Jessica. We’ve already had Roy make a really smart-looking sign with the name. We plan to place it in the front corner garden when spring comes. We’ll also put in Sydney’s homeopathic plants. Seriously, it’s the perfect name.”
I am delighted beyond words! I got to name the house! Everyone liked it for all of the images and plays on words that I imagined. “I’m so, so glad you liked it and picked it. I won’t say a word to Sonia, I promise. More important, most important, you mentioned Sydney. How is she?”
“Not as well as we would all like, I’m afraid,” Tobias answers. “She’s feeling better now that the chemo is over, but her markers aren’t where they should be. She’ll be monitored over the next few months and then decisions will have to be made. Come on, you can see her up at The Eves and you can make me some good African coffee.”
We leave Tia to her chores and, hopefully, her imagination. Hopping in the golf cart, we head up past the llamas and sheep toward, to my glee, The Eves! Tobias makes an unexpected right turn before we get there, however, and loops back down the path, past The Grange house and up a bit of a hill. There, in the crisp winter light, trees bare against the sky, sits the cemetery. Tire marks in the remaining snow from this morning announce that Tobias has already been here today. Parking the cart, we follow his earlier footprints and stand together in silence listening to the wind before continuing.
Tobias, putting his arm around me again, talks as we begin to wander among the graves. “I like coming here and visiting with them all. Sometimes I bring my coffee and I tell them about all that has gone on. Sometimes I ask them questions. So far no one is talking. But I’m a patient man.
“This cemetery tells the story of this land in many ways. You’ve got all the white folks over there a bit further, behind the gate. We keep their graves nice and tidy for them, but no one visits. All of their stones have their names, their lineage, age at death, and dates of birth and death. Sometimes there is a verse. The earliest ones are slave holders and their kin. I imagine them a different lot. I’d like to give them the benefit of my doubt, but I often wonder what their conversations with St. Peter were when he met them at the Pearly Gates. I talk to them, too, and I always thank the last two for this land. An amazing single gift, as you’ve heard me say.
“Our lot is different. Here you can trace us all back in time, although the earliest graves are unmarked and, even the oldest stones here mostly say simply what they did, the year they died and, maybe their age at death.”
We pass graves marked “Chinese cook,” “Negress,” and one marked simply “kitchen boy 6 years of age.” “This one makes me sad,” he continues. “I wonder about who he was, and if he’s buried near his parents. You’d think a place like this might be haunted, but everyone seems to be at peace.”
As we walk, he introduces me to his parents and grandparents, cousins and aunts and uncles. He points out that some of Gene Martin’s family is here too. As we walk past the stones, he seems impervious to the cold as I begin to shiver beside him. He’s moving slowly and keeps eyeing the too newly dug grave several stones ahead of us. I get the sense he is delaying, as if a delayed arrival will keep Joan alive a bit longer.
When we arrive, he sighs deeply and brushes the last of the snow from her stone. His eyes keep darting across the stone and grave, checking, taking in the enormity of her presence here. I read the etched words.
Joan Eve Thatcher
Beloved by all.
Now, born into eternity.
She lies here, still.
Until we are reunited in the Lord,
Love always.
“Tia decided on the inscription. I wanted it to be something splendid but couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I am so grateful for Tia. I don’t think I could walk this part of my journey without her. She’s made it possible for me to keep going and it gives me peace to have her with me. I don’t think I’ve made it very easy on her these last few months. The move is the right thing, but it’s hard to imagine sleeping in a place that I haven’t stared at the ceiling with Joan. Tia’s ready to move on. I don’t think she understands that I don’t want to leave them all behind.
“Come on, you’re beginning to shiver. I’ll have you up at The Eves in a minute.” I smile up at him. “It’s a good name for it, Jessica. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
He winks at me as he kisses his hand and touches the stone in good-bye.
The Eves, indeed!
deirdre
D
uring the short ride to The Eves I take Tobias’ hand that’s resting on the seat between us and squeeze it.
“Thank you for that, and for being so kind to me. I want to tell you all about Africa, the feel of it, the smells. The vocabulary of it alone was amazing to me. I think, I hope, that the journey was a life-changer.”
“It’s all a life-changer, Jessica. Every day, it is a journey, remember, not a dress rehearsal.”
As we pull up to The Eves a “Gentle Ben’s Movers®” truck with a logo of large brown bears carrying a china cabinet is parked at the front. Underneath the words it says, ‘Martinsville College students on the move.’
“Sonia idea?” I ask Tobias, grinning.
“Well, Sonia and Gene. Gene wanted to give the students, mostly boys, skills and jobs, and a respect for others. Gene pitched me the idea, I donated the first truck. Sonia started the project, but Ali now manages it. Gene and I mentor the boys. I like how the work changes them. I like watching them learn and plan their futures and grow into men. This is the third year Gentle Bens has been in business, and it’s turning a profit. Mighty proud of it. Got my granddaddy Benjamin’s name on the truck, too,” he says, satisfied.
He tells me that Gene is inside as he drops me at the front of the house before bringing the cart around back. As he does, I call after him, “Remind me to tell you about Orion!”
Opening the front door, I find organized chaos. At Ali and Gene’s direction furniture is being moved about, put in place, then repositioned. Interesting that Tobias didn’t mention Ali was here too. Even with Sonia not being happy with Ali and the affair, I can’t help but being excited to see her, to catch her energy, and watch her
be so enthusiastically bossy.
More students are loading boxes into the elevator while others are moving boxes on the second floor. Noise from the kitchen indicates that there are more students unpacking there. It’s a hard place to hear yourself think at the moment.
There are excited quick “hellos” and “welcome backs” but I’m clearly in the way. Ali is on a mission. She hurriedly tells me that Sydney has taken off for the library at the college trying to get some work done in the quiet there, and that Jan is establishing herself as chief cook and bottle washer by setting up the kitchen. The other oldies are off in various rooms trying to escape the noise. She warns that I particularly shouldn’t disturb Margaret Mary, who is showing great disdain for the composting toilets. “She’s not amused, even by the brand name. Go figure. How can you not be amused by a ‘Loveable Loo’?
“We have to catch up later. I want to hear all about your trip. Africa—you were so brave! We’re staying on the boat tonight, care to join us?”
My eyes quickly go to Gene’s and he just as quickly averts mine. Ali catches this and winces. I issue my apologies, telling her I have other plans and head to inspect the mystery of the composting toilet. As expected, the kitchen is bustling. Joni Mitchell’s version of Both Sides Now is blaring. Unsurprisingly, Jan is singing along. Someone else is whistling the tune. Jan already has the Hopi jar and spoons on the cooking island. There are boxes everywhere, packed, unpacked, and empty. She’s on a ladder arranging dishes in the upper cabinets as students bring them to her. She descends quickly when she sees me. Almost missing the last rung, she explodes with welcoming laughter as she reaches out to grab me.
We hug and greet, I tell her I brought coffee, placing it on the counter. “I brought you this too,” I tell her and take one of my spoons from Ngorongoro out of my satchel and hand it to her. She’s instantly still and the room seems to calm as she rubs her hands over the wood, feels the grooves in the shaft, and fingers the little red and blue beads at the top of the handle.