by Kim Golden
"Never mind," I say. "It's too late anyway. I'm done." And I turn off my phone. I don't want to talk to him or anyone else today.
My waitress comes over with my plate of food and sets it before me. When she asks if she can get anything else for me, the bored expression has left her face and she seems more sympathetic; almost concerned. The truckers are all glancing back at me.
"Yeah, could you tell me how to get to Vermont from here?"
"Not me." The waitress points at the truckers. "But I bet they can."
Thank God for turnpike diners…
Now, I have directions to get me at least as far as Albany and a stomach full of coffee, scrambled eggs, hash browns and a few rashers of bacon. I get back on the road again and tell myself that by the time I make it to Hunters Grove I will have a new plan for my life.
Yeah…right.
But I drive, and all the towns I pass, the fields, and houses, and endless black ribbon of the road distract me enough to push Evan from my mind.
Instead, my thoughts go to my grandmother, Ruth, who died six months ago and whose house I am going to now. My grandmother was one of those feisty old women who took no shit from anyone, but who was also one of the kindest people in the world. She had this soft way about her that made people think they could take advantage of her, but they didn't know her very well. Grandma Ruth grew up in Suffolk, Virginia, when it was still segregated. She never liked talking about that time in her life, even when I tried to pry it out of her, but my mother told me how her grandfather was lynched by some local men, who claimed he'd made a pass at one of the men's daughters. No one knows if it was true. It probably wasn't, but it was enough to propel my great-grandmother and my grandmother away from Virginia. They took the train north, stopping in Rochester, New York, before continuing onwards to Vermont and eventually setting down roots in Hunters Grove.
My grandmother Ruth was ten when she moved to Vermont and her family was the first black family in Hunters Grove. Grandpa Hart's family wasn't considered black by the locals. They were too mixed—they were the descendants of Cree Indians, runaway slaves, and French Canadian furriers from Quebec. They'd been in Hunters Grove so long that people used to joke his family had founded the town. And they were light-skinned, light enough to pass for white and probably a few of them did. Even now, there are not many blacks in Hunters Grove. My mother likes to joke that she and Grandma Ruth were the ink spots of the town. My grandfather died when I was a teenager, but I remember he was a quiet man who liked reading more than anything else in the world and he let Grandma Ruth rule the house while he ran the town's hardware store.
Maybe staying in their house will ground me. I used to spend every summer there when I was a child. I loved escaping the heat of Philadelphia and running through the fields, chasing butterflies; the curving view of the Green Mountains dipping and rising towards the sky. I thought the mountains were heaven and I used to ask Grandpa Hart if he was going there one day. In the kitchen, there is a loose floorboard where I used to hide an old tin box that I filled with coins and buttons and other treasures.
I spent my summers watching how my grandparents adored one another, even after forty-five years of marriage and I wanted the same thing for myself. My parents' marriage didn't last past my fifth birthday. But, Grandpa Hart and Grandma Ruth were my idols. And when I thought of love, I thought of them and their nicknames for one another—Sugar Hiccup and Bumble Bee. I thought of Sunday mornings in church, with Grandpa sitting in the front row and Grandma singing in the church choir. I thought of how the two of them held hands when they walked along Main Street and exchange tiny kisses on one another's cheeks. And when my grandfather died of a heart attack, at the age of sixty-five, my grandmother didn't fall apart. She said Grandpa would have wanted her to keep on living and enjoying life. And she did. And she used to tell me that, when I found the right person, I would love so hard it would hurt.
That's my problem.
I love too much.
And no one loves me back.
3 Misery Doesn't Love Company
The sun is already setting when I arrive in Hunters Grove. I stopped at a Hannaford's in Barre to pick up some essentials, since I couldn't remember if the local grocery story would have everything I'd need for at least the first few days of my stay. I wasn't even really sure what I'd need, so I picked up a little of everything—coffee, chai tea, milk, five bottles of wine, gossip rags, cans of New England clam chowder, bread, a couple of jars of spaghetti sauce and some boxes of penne. Other things—like toilet paper and light bulbs—I didn't think about, until I was pulling into the driveway. I'd just have to hope that my mother had left some here when she'd come during the summer.
The driveway curves gently to the left and my headlights sweep over the facade of the stone guest cottage and its snow-dusted hedges, before settling on the creamy white clapboard facade of my grandmother's house. The house still looks the same—all of the shutters open and fastened into place, the broad porch swept. Someone has turned on the porch lamp. Maybe it's on a timer. Or maybe one of her neighbors is keeping an eye on the place. My mother had said Uncle Horace, the family lawyer, was taking care of the house until we decided what we wanted to do with it. My grandmother left it to me in her will, but I don't really know what to do with a house.
I'd always loved it here and imagined moving here one day with my family. When I was still in college, I would take the train from Philadelphia to White River Junction and then catch the regional bus to Hunters Grove as soon as finals were over and Christmas break had begun. Sometimes Jane came with me and marveled over the snow and how the entire village reminded her of a Currier and Ives card. I guess I was so used to it that I had stopped noticing it, but it was fun being there with my best friend and taking her for long walks in the woods that started at the base of my grandparents' back yard and ice skating on the frozen-over lake. Once, I came here with Evan when we were still dating, but that had not gone over very well.
My mother had disliked him from the start—he was too flashy for her with his designer watch and his too-new looking wardrobe. The fact that he was a trader for a mutual fund made her even more suspicious of him. Grandma Ruth called him a slickster and it had gone downhill from there. Well, if she were still alive, she would be shaking her head now and thinking I told you so without saying it. I wish she were here now. She would know exactly what to say and then she'd make whisky-spiked tea and distract me with some home improvement project that would take up enough time that it would sand away whatever was bothering me.
I turn off the ignition and then got out of the car. It's colder here than it had been in Philly. I need to make sure there was enough firewood in the house, in case I decide to light a fire. I set my grocery bags on the porch and then walk back to the car to fetch my battered weekend bag. That's when I notice a dark figure coming up the driveway.
Whoever it is is tall and walked with care on the snow-dusted gravel. I call out a "hey!" and the figure stops then comes toward me. Shit, maybe this was dumb.
"This is private property," I say with more bravery than I feel. It is dark enough now that the porch light isn't providing enough light to see the stranger's face.
"I know, so what are you doing here?"
"I own this place," I say hotly. "Who are you? And just what are you doing here?"
"I live here," the man replies and steps closer. "If you own this place, then you should know who your tenant is."
"What are you talking about? I never said anyone could rent here—"
"Ruth Carter helped me set everything up," he says. "I've got a lease."
"Look, my grandmother left me this place—"
"Ah..you're the prodigal granddaughter…right, that explains it. You don't live here."
"Just who are you?"
"I'm Jake Groenewald," he clarifies. "Like I said, I'm your tenant. I'm renting the guest cottage."
"I'm Mia Wilkinson."
"I figured. Ruth said you might show
up," he says. "Are we going to keep standing out here in the cold?"
"No one was supposed to be here."
"Well, I'm here until at least the end of January. Your grandmother and I worked it out before she fell ill."
"Sounds like Grandma Ruth…damn it! I wanted to be alone for Christmas."
"Yeah, well, I figured I would be too, but it looks like we're stuck with each other."
We have a Mexican standoff. I flash him my most annoyed glare, but he just shrugs and smiles. I turn and stalk off. I don't know who he is, but…dammit! I didn't want to see any men for a few days…especially really gorgeous ones. I didn't want any company at all.
Inside, I turn on the lights and check the heat. Well, at least the house seems like it's in order. None of the windows are broken. I don't see any evidence of raccoons or squirrels having taken up residence. But on the other side of the yard, just a few feet away, is a man who shouldn't even be here. I try to call my mother, but get her voicemail. She must surely know who he is and when Grandma began renting to him.
While I wait for her to call me back I begin inspecting the upper floor of the house. After my grandmother died, my mother talked briefly about running a bed and breakfast in the house, but my grandmother's lawyer reminded her that the house was mine to do with what I wished. I didn't know what I wanted then. I still don't. When I found out the house was mine, I was lying naked and exhausted from a marathon fuck session with Evan on a disheveled bed in a Miami Beach hotel room. He was playing with my nipples, whispering their silly nicknames, as I tried to concentrate on what my grandmother's lawyer was saying. I remember old Horace Lundgren explaining something about how I would have to sign papers to make it all official and I gasped—not at his news, but at the onslaught of an orgasm released by Evan's expert's fingers and mouth. I think Uncle Horace thought his news had shocked me—he assured me there was nothing out of the ordinary with the arrangement, all I had to do was come by his office the next time I was in Hunters Grove or he could send them to me, but it was much nicer if we did everything face to face. And I gasped out a yes, yes, and agreed to a date, which I ended up having to reschedule, but by the first of October the house was officially mine.
I still cannot believe I own a house. And I have a tenant. If I look out the side window in my grandmother's bedroom, I can see the guest cottage lights through the bare tree branches. What is he doing here? He didn't sound like he was from here on the East Coast… And his name…Jake Groenewald. I've never met any Groenewalds here in Hunters Grove. Maybe he's just passing through? I don't know why I am so miffed that he is here. It isn't as though we will be cramped for space or even have to see one another every day. You can stay in the guest cottage and never have to deal with anyone in the main house. It's where I stayed when I came to Hunters Grove for Christmas Break. Grandpa Hart hated it when I secluded myself in the guest cottage the first few days. Usually, all I was doing was smoking pot and sleeping. If my friends were with me, then we were sleeping off hangovers from drinking too much in the town's only pub. Word usually got back to my granddad about what my friends and I were getting up to, but he figured we always made it home in one piece since we were smart enough not to drive when we were drunk. We'd just stumble along the path from the village green, up to the part of Hunters Grove called Lookout Hill, where my grandparents and their five neighbors had a perfect view of the village on one side and the mountains and valley on the other.
I unlocked the window and struggled to open it so fresh air could seep into the room. Everything was clean, but the air still felt stale. A part of me had hoped I would catch a whiff of my grandmother's rose perfume, but the house smells closed-in, like a faint sheen of dust or a room closed far too long. My grandmother's room still looks as I remember it. I turn on a bedside lamp and pull away the dustcover on the bed. I could sleep in my old bedroom, but it will bring too many unwanted memories; I've slept there with Evan. Even if the mattress has been aired out and the sheets changed, I am certain I will still smell a ghost of his distinctive scent in the bed linens. But, here, in my grandmother's room, there is nothing to remind me of him and everything to remind me of my grandparents.
After I've folded the dust cloth and set it on the floor, I open the cedar-lined cupboards and find extra pillows and faded bed linens, old hat boxes I know will contain family photos and letters. All of my grandmother's clothes are gone, except for a few items I asked my mother to save, and I am surprised she remembered. There is the raccoon coat she won in a poker match and that I used to love dressing up in as a child. As a teenager, I pretended the coat repulsed me, but I would still sneak into my grandmother's closet and try it on over my "Meat is Murder" t-shirts and faded Levis. In another hanging suit bag, I find my grandmother's wedding dress. It isn't fancy—just a very plain cream wool shirtdress in a typical 1940s style with its nipped waist and full tea-length skirt. This too was another of my favorite dress-up outfits and my grandmother always said she hoped I would use it one day.
"It's a shame to see it go to waste," she'd say. So much care went into it."
Finally, there is her red silk dress, which she wore whenever we had company for Christmas. I don't know what I will do with any of this, but it is what I need to remember my grandmother's steady voice, especially now.
The house seems to let out a long sigh and I wonder if it is glad that I am here. Maybe it has been waiting for one of us to come and make it a home again. I pull away more dust cloths and reveal the overstuffed armchair where my grandfather read every night before going to bed. He loved reading biographies and cozy mysteries. He wasn't a man who wanted to waste much time with television. He thought it destroyed brain cells.
If he thought I'd been in front of the TV too long he'd say, "Mia Elizabeth Wilkinson, watching too much of that nonsense is going to be the downfall of you and every other Negro on this planet. You mark my words."
He never said "black" or "nigger". We were always Negros. And he was very proud that we were not like the "Negros" he knew who lived in big cities—our cousins who lived in Boston and Philadelphia and New York, who all seemed to be scrambling to stay above water and keep their kids away from gangs. Grandpa Hart thought his relatives who'd left Vermont for the big cities were crazy. At least here, he said, you could make something of yourself. In the city, people would hold you back no matter what you did. He didn't like it one bit when my mother moved away to go to school and then to marry my dad. He didn't like my dad. He was a big city slickster. And, in this, Grandpa Hart was right. He said nothing good ever came out of any big city—a gross generalization, I know, but they were words my grandfather lived by. He would make an exception when he patted my hand and told me, "You're the only good thing out of the city, my sweet baby." And then he'd plant a kiss on my forehead and it made me feel special.
Downstairs, I hear a quacking noise and remember I've left my phone in the kitchen. I rush downstairs, nearly tripping over my feet to get to it before my mother hangs up. When I finally answer with a breathless hello, she says, "You aren't smoking again, are you?"
"I just ran down the stairs, Mom."
"Why are you running? I would have just called back."
"I know, I know."
"Now, don't be upset with me, but I did forget all about our tenant."
"It would have been nice to know that we even had a tenant."
"Well, I don't see why you're so bothered by it. He's in the guest house and he's paying good money for it."
"Where is the money, by the way?"
"It's going into a special rent account I set up in your name. I told you all of this back in September."
Maybe she did. I just don't remember any of it. "But, who is he, Mom?"
"Didn't he tell you his name?"
"Of course he did, but how did you and grandma find him?"
"Well, Darling, it was your auntie Ruth who found him," my mother explains. "He came into the diner and he was looking for a place to rent."
&nbs
p; "Did she do a background check?"
"Darling, that wasn't necessary."
"How do we know he isn't a psychopath?"
"You're being very melodramatic now, aren't you?"
"I just want to know who he is."
"Well, ask him, Darling. He'll tell you. He's a very nice young man. Very polite."
"Mom, be serious. We can't just rent out Grandma's house—my house—to someone we don't even know."
"We're not renting your grandmother's house," my mother says in that teacher-like voice she's used on me since I was a child—the one she uses when she thinks I am behaving like a brat. "We're renting your grandmother's guest cottage. Now, trust me, Mia. Ruth Carter already vetted him out before she even suggested him as a tenant."
"I just don't feel comfortable with this. I wanted to be alone for Christmas."
"Darling, I assumed he'd probably be away since his family's in Cape Town."
"Cape Town? As in South Africa?"
"Well, yes, that's the only Cape Town I know of."
"Why are we renting to a white South African?"
"Because he needed a place to stay. Stop being so racial, that's not how I raised you."
"I'm not being racial, Mother. I'm just wondering what a white South African man is doing in the middle of nowhere in Hunters Grove."
"Well there's a very easy way to find out—ask him."
After I finish talking to my mother, I don't feel especially satisfied but at least I know the man in my guest cottage has been vetted. All the lights have been turned on to make the house feel more lived-in, and I've changed into a pair of yoga pants and a soft, cozy sweater. Outside, it's beginning to snow again—not the wet, heavy snow we had on Thanksgiving in Philadelphia, but feathery light flurries that dance in the wind. Every now and then the windows rattle, but it's nothing I am not used to.
This is an old house. It was built in 1850 and it's withstood its share of Vermont winters. The stairs creak, the windows are a little drafty, some of the rooms are too large, others are too narrow, but this is the house that holds the most memories of my childhood. Not any of the apartments my mother and I lived in together. We moved so often—either because, of the men my mother was involved with, or because, my mother would suddenly decide she didn't like a neighborhood and begin looking for a change—so I learned never to establish firm roots or attachments. There was always the possibility I'd be ripped out of my soil and be forced to adapt to something else.
