Neither Present Time

by Caren J. Werlinger

“It’s okay,” said Claire. “You’re upset. Tell me what happened.”

  “It was terrible,” Beryl said, her voice breaking as she began to cry. In halting phrases, she recounted what had happened. “If I’d just realized,” she sobbed.

  “You couldn’t have known,” Claire said soothingly, kneeling in front of Beryl’s chair and holding her by the shoulders. “Let me shower and we’ll get some dinner, okay?”

  Beryl sniffed and nodded. Claire gave her a quick kiss as she got to her feet. “That’s about the only part of me it’s safe to touch right now,” Claire joked with a crooked smile – the smile that had captured Beryl’s heart the first time she saw it.

  Beryl closed her eyes as Claire headed up the stairs. “You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” she whispered to herself, trying to block the sounds she thought she’d heard on the stairs before Claire realized she was there.

  * * *

  Beryl stopped abruptly as she neared the reference desk. A stranger was sitting in David’s place.

  The past couple of weeks had been filled – consumed, Beryl would have said – with mourning David. She had kept his chair vacant, refusing to sit in it even when she needed to be at that computer station. The viewing and funeral had been especially hard. She still felt so incredibly guilty, and the ordeal of having to face his wife and daughter, thinking maybe she could have, should have, done something. If she had, then maybe… “Stop!” she said to herself for the hundredth time.

  The evening of the viewing, she’d rushed home to change and grab something to eat before heading to the funeral home. Glancing at the clock nervously as she finished eating, she called Claire’s cell phone.

  “Where are you?” Beryl asked.

  “I’m still at work,” Claire said impatiently. “Where else would I be?”

  “Let’s see… you might be here getting ready to go to the funeral home with me like you said you would,” but Beryl didn’t say it. What she did say was, “David’s viewing is tonight.”

  “Oh,” Claire groaned. “I completely forgot. I’m sorry. I’m tied up doing budget reports that I’ve got to finish. I’ll see you at home later tonight, okay?”

  “You operate on a July fiscal year. You did your budget reports two months ago.” But Beryl didn’t say this, either. She thinks I don’t remember things, Beryl thought as she headed out the door. But I remember everything – I know the names of every person she works with; I remember the names of their spouses and kids. She can’t remember the name of the one person I was close to. And now he’s gone.

  And now he’d been replaced.

  What she’d thought at first was someone sitting in David’s chair she now realized was a man in a wheelchair. David’s chair was pushed back against the wall.

  Beryl found herself staring into a ruggedly handsome face that looked as if it belonged on the cover of a men’s magazine – piercing blue eyes, short, carelessly scruffy hair and a couple days’ worth of beard. He startled her by pushing himself up with his muscular arms to stand on his one remaining leg as he extended a hand to her. “You must be Beryl,” he said with a smile. “I’m Ridley Wade.”

  “Hi, Ridley,” she said, taking his hand.

  He lowered himself back into his wheelchair and said, “I was really sorry to hear about David. I only met him a few times, but he seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was,” Beryl nodded, setting her backpack under the desk and sitting down. “Did you transfer from somewhere else on campus?” she asked curiously. Trying not to stare, she noted, now that he was sitting and his pants leg had hitched up, that Ridley’s right foot was a prosthetic foot attached to a pylon.

  “Yeah, I was over at Dahlgren,” he replied, “but medical students are a pain in the ass. They don’t know enough to know how much they don’t know, but they already think they’re ready to walk on water.”

  Beryl laughed and was startled at how strange it sounded.

  “I really like the humanities, so when I heard David’s position here at Lauinger had posted, I applied,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t mean to come charging in, taking his place,” he added, as if he had read Beryl’s thoughts upon first seeing him. “How long have you been here?”

  “Twelve years,” she said. “Since finishing my degree.”

  “Twelve years,” he repeated, shaking his head. “That’s longer than I’ve ever been anywhere.”

  They were interrupted by a student requiring assistance.

  “I can take this,” Ridley volunteered.

  Beryl watched him propel himself with his hands and right foot. Over at the shelves, he stood, balancing himself by bracing what remained of his left thigh on a shelf so he could reach up and pull the requested books down off the top shelf.

  She hastily busied herself at her computer as he wheeled himself back to the reference desk.

  “So where did you get your library degree?” she asked casually.

  Ridley’s face took on an expression of resignation. “University of Maryland,” he replied. “After I got back from Afghanistan.” He spun his chair around to face her. “Marine. Road-side bomb.” He tapped something hard below his right knee. “Prosthesis. I have one for the left side, but it’s too heavy to wear except when I need to. I have crutches, but then my hands are tied up. So,” he spread his hands, glancing down at his chair, “the government generously provides me with a speedy set of wheels. Lets me get around and still have the use of my hands. In case you were wondering,” he finished with just a hint of sarcasm and hostility.

  Beryl blinked, taken aback at such an unexpected disclosure. “Wow, I… I never –”

  “What?” Ridley challenged, his eyes narrowing a bit, and she could see a hint of the warrior in him.

  “A brainy Marine. Who’d have guessed?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then threw his head back and laughed. “All right,” he said, shaking his head and still laughing. “All right.”

  Chapter 6

  Aggie glanced over at her desk as she heard the buzz of her cell phone vibrating. She looked up at the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes left before the bell. Her students were busy writing a short story for her. These were all kids who had failed English, a mix of freshmen and sophomores. She tried to structure the summer sessions so they got their work done while they were at school – bad enough having to be in summer school without spending evenings and weekends doing homework. That had been the problem for most of them in the first place – not that they weren’t intelligent enough to pass, but between work and sports and whatever else was going on at home, there was no way they were going to get their homework done at night. She also used the time to get as much of her own grading done as possible.

  By the time the clock ticked toward the bell releasing them for the weekend, nearly every student was packed up, butts half-off their seats, ready to bolt.

  “Pick up your papers on your way out,” Aggie called, waving the stack. “Overall, a nice improvement.”

  Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, they scrabbled through the pile to find their work. She grinned as they each peeked at the last page to see her grade and comment.

  “Julio, very nicely done.”

  He beamed. “Thanks, Ms. B.”

  “And Becka, nice improvement in your sentence flow.”

  Her pimply face broke into a rare smile. “Thanks, Miss Bishop.”

  As soon as the classroom had emptied, she pulled open her desk drawer and looked to see who had called. She pushed the recall button.

  “Hey, Shannon, what’s up?”

  “Not much,” said Aggie’s closest friend. “I just wondered if you could spare some time in your non-summer to go out to dinner tonight? And I promise not to rub in how much I am enjoying having my summer off.”

  “It feels like a non-summer,” Aggie admitted, “but I need the money.”

  “For your aunt, not for you,” Shannon pointed out.

  “Same thing,” Aggie sighed. “Sh
e doesn’t have anyone else.”

  “Yes, she does. At least, she should,” Shannon said. “You’ve got brothers and a father who could be helping.”

  “Yeah, well…” Aggie grumbled. “They won’t. You know what they’re like. They just want to be rid of her and sell everything. I can’t do that to her.”

  “What about dinner?” Shannon asked, getting back to the reason she’d called.

  “Um…” Aggie stalled, knowing full well that she had backed out the last three times Shannon had called her. “I was going to bring something over to Aunt Cory’s tonight. How about joining us?” Shannon was quiet, but Aggie pressed. “Come on. You’re as pathetic as I am. No date on a Friday. We might as well have dinner with my ninety-three-year-old aunt. It’s as exciting as anything else we’d do.”

  “Oh, all right,” Shannon agreed.

  “Great. I’ll pick up dinner and swing by to get you at six.”

  “See you then.”

  * * *

  Aggie pulled up to Shannon’s house at the appointed time, while Percival hopped back and forth in the back seat between the driver and passenger side windows.

  “Ummm, I smell fried chicken,” Shannon said as she got in, sniffing.

  “It’s in the trunk,” Aggie grinned. “I don’t trust Percival quite that far.”

  “Smart,” Shannon agreed, turning to rub Percival’s scruffy head as he popped up on the armrest between the front seats at the mention of his name.

  “I’ve always thought this was such a cool house,” Shannon said as they entered the tree-lined drive and the house came into sight.

  “Yeah, it is.” Aggie opened the trunk and she and Shannon pulled out bags of food. “Aunt Cory?” she called as they entered the kitchen. Receiving no answer, she frowned. “I’ll go check the garden. Be right back.”

  Percival led the way as Aggie headed out across the yard.

  Shannon explored the main floor. It was the first time she’d been here since the auction. Where before, it had seemed just lonely, with only Aunt Cory wandering around, now it felt depressing, she thought. Most of the rooms were empty, only the books on the shelves and the odd chair or side table remained. The walls were pockmarked with smudges and lighter-colored squares and rectangles where paintings had hung for years. Now, there were only empty nails.

  In the front parlour, propped on the mantel and bookcases, were a number of photos in ornate silver frames. She stepped closer.

  “There you are,” Aggie said a few minutes later. “Found her sitting outside. She’s washing up.”

  “Is this your aunt when she was younger?” Shannon asked curiously, indicating one of the frames.

  Aggie leaned closer. “Yeah.”

  “You look just like her,” Shannon said, glancing from the photo to her friend. “Same blond hair and blue eyes. Who’s that with her?”

  “That’s Aunt Helen.”

  “Aunt Helen?”

  Aggie shrugged. “Well, she wasn’t really an aunt. She and Aunt Cory were… companions.”

  Shannon turned to her in surprise. “As in…?”

  Aggie shrugged again. “I honestly don’t know. No one ever talked about it. But I heard she was devastated when Helen died. I think they lived together for, I don’t know, something like thirty years.”

  “Does she know about you?”

  “What’s to know?” Aggie asked. “I haven’t had a girlfriend in, what, three years? Percival is my only serious relationship and I like it that way.”

  “You really are pathetic,” Shannon nodded wisely.

  Aggie raised one eyebrow. “Better than a series of one-night stands.”

  Shannon held a hand up. “Don’t even go there. That’s all I want,” she insisted. “After I finally got rid of that bastard husband of mine, I am not about to make the same mistakes again.”

  Cory called from the kitchen, wondering where they’d got to.

  Aggie linked her arm through Shannon’s, steering her toward the kitchen. “It’s not safe, though,” she said seriously. “I’m just afraid one of these guys is going to hurt you.”

  “Ha! No man will ever do that to me again,” Shannon growled. “And if one tries, he’s going to get kicked so hard in the balls, they’ll end up as his Adam’s apple.” She was saying this last bit as they entered the kitchen where Cory was setting the table, a very attentive Percival following her back and forth.

  “Well, that sounded like an interesting conversation,” Cory said.

  “It was,” Aggie said, “and you’re not old enough to participate.”

  Cory laughed as they passed around platters of fried chicken, potato salad and sliced tomatoes.

  “Oh, thank goodness it’s Friday,” Aggie sighed as she took a bite of chicken.

  “Don’t wish your weeks away, wishing for Fridays,” Cory said, sprinkling salt and pepper on her tomatoes. “Before you know it, the weeks have leapt by, and then the months and the years. And someday, you’ll wish for more Mondays.”

  Aggie reached over and gave Cory’s arm a squeeze.

  “Aunt Cory, could you tell us about Helen?” Shannon asked innocently, pulling her shins out of reach of Aggie’s kicks under the table.

  Cory’s pale blue eyes lit up, though. “She was my closest… my dearest…” She blinked rapidly, and said, “We met working in the 1940 census office in Washington.”

  “D.C.?” Aggie asked in disbelief. “I thought you’d lived your whole life here in Columbus.”

  Cory’s eyes twinkled. “Not quite. I’ve seen a bit more of the world than Ohio.”

  “Tell us more,” Shannon prompted, winking at Aggie.

  Cory smiled to herself as she nibbled on a drumstick, her eyes focused on the past.

  * * *

  “How can you be twenty-one years old and not know how to type?” Corinne asks in bewilderment as she stares at the error-riddled paper in Helen’s typewriter.

  “My schools didn’t focus on such mundane things,” Helen says carelessly, bookmarking a volume of Wordsworth.

  “You’re going to get fired if you don’t start doing better,” Corinne says with a worried glance toward Miss Chalmers’ empty chair. “And you’re not getting paid to read poetry.”

  Helen laughs. “So I get fired. It’s not like I’m doing this for the money.”

  Corinne frowns. “Me, either. But I still want to do a good job,” she says, feeling as if Helen is belittling the work.

  Helen realizes what she said and quickly adds, “I know this is important, but it’s just not what I’m good at.”

  “What are you good at?” Corinne asks.

  “I’m a whiz at languages,” Helen says confidently.

  Corinne rips the page out of Helen’s typewriter and rolls a fresh sheet in. “Well, English is the only language they accept for the census, so you’d better focus.” She crosses her arms and looks down at Helen sternly. “Miss Chalmers put me in charge of you. You’ll make me look bad if you don’t do better.”

  Helen looks up coyly. She has learned how to make Corinne blush. “For you, then,” she says with a smile.

  * * *

  Cory shook her head. “She nearly got us both fired.”

  “Why haven’t you ever talked about this before?” Aggie asked.

  Cory smiled wickedly. “You never asked.”

  Chapter 7

  Beryl came down the stairs, sealing the envelope of her brother’s birthday card. “Why aren’t you dressed?” she asked in surprise. “We have to be there in an hour.”

  Claire looked over from where she was lying on the couch watching a tennis tournament. “You won’t be too disappointed if I don’t go, will you?” she asked.

  Beryl’s shoulders tensed. “They’re expecting us.”

  Claire’s voice took on a slightly more petulant tone as she said, “I just want to enjoy a weekend with no obligations for a change.”

  “Like getting up at six this morning to play tennis with Leslie?” Beryl could have
asked, but didn’t. Instead, “You’ve backed out at the last minute for the last three get-togethers with my family. They’re starting to ask questions.”

  “So?” Claire turned back to the television. “Stop making excuses and tell the truth for a change.”

  “What truth is that?” Beryl wanted to ask. “That we don’t do anything together anymore? That our relationship is –” but she stopped those thoughts. Trying one more time, she said calmly, “They’re polite enough to include you. You could be polite enough to come.”

  There was a subtle hardening of Claire’s tone as she said, “I’m not coming,” and Beryl knew further argument was pointless.

  She gathered her backpack from its cubby near the stairs and turned to go.

  “Beryl?”

  Beryl turned, a hopeful expression on her face.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”

  Beryl walked stiffly over to the couch, leaned down and gave Claire a quick kiss on the cheek. As she straightened, Claire grabbed her hand and said, “You can do better than that.” She lifted her face, waiting until Beryl bent again and kissed her on the lips. Claire released her with a small smile as Beryl pulled away and left.

  A few minutes later, Beryl was on a bus, heading to Georgetown. Almost automatically, she pulled the Godden book from her backpack. She knew the inscription by heart and had read the book three times now. The story, about a house’s hold on the family that lived in it, had become entwined in her mind with Helen and Corinne. She found herself imagining their story, making up moments in their life together – a life that spanned decades in which their love never faded, never morphed into something that was slowly decaying.

  Reluctantly, a part of her was realizing how toxic her relationship with Claire had become, but every time that part of her said, “You’ve got to start thinking about this. What are you going to do when –?”, the other part of her that couldn’t, wouldn’t listen, would turn to Helen and Corinne’s world. It was a happier place to be lately. Sometimes, she thought again of trying to track down more information about them, but she hadn’t attempted it since the day David died. Somehow, the two things had become entangled in her mind.