Seven days after she arrived in Hopeful, Olivia happily tucked a packet of seeds into her purse; then loaded Charlie into the trunk of the car and drove off. “I know you’d want me to get on with my life,” she’d whispered apologetically as she wedged the silver urn back behind a carton of souvenirs.
With her gold tooth sparkling in the sunlight, Canasta waved goodbye from the front step of the Main Street Motel. She knew, sooner or later, Olivia, like all the others, would realize the seeds were nothing more than green peppercorns—hopefully by then she’d be on speaking terms with the Lord and would have no need for such foolishness.
Olivia Ann Doyle
Some folks say once a person’s departed this earth, they’ve got no connection to the poor souls left behind; but I don’t believe such a thing is true. I know without a whisker of doubt, Charlie Doyle was responsible for my landing in Hopeful. He more than likely caught sight of me looking like a person turned inside out and figured I could use a bit of uplifting.
I truly do miss Charlie. You might wonder how a woman married just twenty-one days could come to be so dependent on her husband—I wonder it too—but, the truth is it happened. That night at the Fontainebleau, I felt my own heart dying right along with Charlie’s. When he stopped breathing, my lungs suffered from the lack of air. And when they told me Charlie was gone, I could almost feel my soul slipping out of my body and marching up to heaven right alongside of him.
I know Charlie wouldn’t want me to go on being miserable forever, so I’m trying to see the brighter side of things. The seeds Canasta gave me help a lot. But to be on the safe side, I’ve thrown nickels and dimes into the pockets of every outfit I own—that way, I’ll remember about God providing the spare change to get me through. I’m hoping this pain inside of me will someday ease a bit; but right now, Lord oh Lord, how my heart does ache.
Going Home
With Charlie in the trunk, driving became a bit easier. Olivia set the radio to a station that played mostly country music and she sang along with Patsy Cline through to the top end of Georgia. In South Carolina she switched over to Elvis and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. By late afternoon, she was nearing Raleigh, which is when the convertible took to sputtering. “Oh, dear,” she sighed and eased off to the side of the road. Once the car had rolled to a stop, she climbed from behind the wheel to look the situation over. A flat tire she would have recognized right off, but smoke billowing out from beneath the hood was something else entirely. She pulled the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and read it cover to cover—page after page of information about the horses beneath the hood, but not a word on sputtering engines.
Olivia, furious with Charlie for stranding her in a situation such as this, was contemplating the thought of gulping down the seeds Canasta had given her, when a trailer tractor pulled up behind her. A bearded man with what she’d call a troublesome glint in his eye, stepped down from the truck and asked, “Need help?”
She hesitated, recalling how this was the sort of situation where a woman travelling alone got robbed and murdered—left by the roadside for buzzards to pick apart.
Ignoring the fact that she hadn’t answered, he said, “Your engine’s probably overheated,” and came walking toward her.
Another woman may have had other options, Olivia did not. She tried to force a smile but the result was a look of paralysis with the whites of her eyes showing the full way around and the left corner of her mouth tilted at an odd angle. “It’ll be okay in a minute or two,” she eventually mumbled.
He popped open the hood, “Let’s take a look.” A cloud of steam rose from the engine when the hood was lifted. “Not good,” he sighed and took to fingering his chin. He waited a bit for the car to cool down, then started poking around. “Ah-ha,” he finally exclaimed and directed her attention to a black hose which had split apart. “There’s the culprit! Looks like you’re gonna need a tow.” He gave a sympathetic smile which, despite the beard, made him seem somewhat less menacing. “I can give you a lift into Claymore,” he said, “you’ll find a mechanic there.”
It was late in the afternoon, in an hour or two it would be pitch black, she could stand here hoping things would take a turn for the better, or risk a ride with the stranger. “Okay,” she answered, then opened her purse, took out one of the green peppercorns and swallowed it down. A month ago Olivia would not have thought it possible she’d hike up her skirt and climb into the truck of a man she’d known for less than fifteen minutes; but there she was, riding shotgun for a load of cantaloupes and headed for a town smack in the middle of nowhere. The truck swung back onto the highway and she watched in the side view mirror as the blue convertible got smaller and smaller, then finally disappeared.
“Peter O’Ryan,” the man said. He let go of the right side of the steering wheel and shoved his hand across the cab. “You?”
In an effort to seem less a woman travelling alone, she answered, “Missus Charles Doyle.” She noticed the photograph of a round-faced woman and five little girls stuck to Peter’s dashboard, then added, “Olivia.” When she learned Peter was a church-going man who’d been married for sixteen years and taught bible studies on Sunday mornings, she let down her guard. “If you ever pass through Hopeful,” she said, “you ought stop and visit Canasta Jones.” Peter claimed he was generally pretty anxious to get home to his family, but promised to keep the thought in mind.
Claymore, which was twenty three miles from where Olivia had abandoned the convertible, had two gas stations but only one was equipped to repair automobiles. And, as fate would have it, their mechanic was off on vacation for the remainder of the week. “But,” Olivia moaned, “…surely there’s someone else?”
“Not till Monday,” the clerk repeated.
Olivia’s eyes welled with tears as she turned and walked out into the street. It seemed things were going from horrible to even worse, helpings of bad luck stacking up like dirty dishes. Whatever had she gotten herself into? When she got to the corner, Olivia turned, whether it had been right or left, she’d be hard pressed to say because by then she was without direction. The sky turned dusky as she tromped aimlessly up one street and down another. She passed by a Boy Scout who rattled a tin can in her face and called out that it was time to help the poor. “I’m the one who’s poor,” Olivia mumbled and continued to move one foot in front of the other. She took no notice of anything, until, she found herself standing in front of a brightly lit Ford showroom. Right there in the window was the answer to her prayers—a shiny new black sedan. That was the kind of car a woman of her nature should have—something solid and dependable, something with a roof that didn’t fold up like a hankie, something black, not a frivolous shade of powder blue. Without a second thought, she walked in.
“Do you take trade-ins?” she asked the young man standing behind the counter.
“Yes indeed.”
“Even if the car’s got a broken hose?”
“No problem.”
“How about if it’s stuck out on the highway?”
“Hmm,” the young man twitched his mouth to the right in a mannerism quite like Charlie’s, which immediately gave Olivia a good feeling. “We could send a tow truck, but that’s an extra charge.”
“An extra charge?” Olivia repeated. She was about to ask how much that charge would be when the salesman held up his hand.
“Okay, okay,” he groaned playfully, “you’ve twisted my arm—no extra charge if we do the deal right now!”
“Right now? But, I still have my things in the trunk.” It was not like Olivia to go about blabbing her business, so she felt no need to explain Charlie’s death but she did nonetheless feel ashamed about including him under the heading of things.
“No problem,” the salesman said, “We’ll have your old car towed back here you can take whatever you want.”
Two days later, Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville driving a Ford Fairlane, equipped with air conditioning, a static free radio and custom
ized floor mats. “Where’s Charlie?” the neighbors asked. “What have you done with his lovely convertible?”
When Olivia explained how Charlie died of a massive heart attack and had to be brought home bottled up inside a silver urn, everyone raised an eyebrow.
“Charlie was never sick a day!” Clara Bowman said.
“A day?” Maggie Cooper sneered, “Why, not even five minutes!”
“And what about his convertible?” Henry Myerson asked. “Charlie loved that car. Are we supposed to believe that died too?”
“It did,” Olivia answered. “Not died exactly, but boiled over in such a way I thought it was going to explode.” She was about to explain how she found herself stranded at the side of the road in North Carolina and had no choice other than to trade Charlie’s car in for a more practical replacement, but by then all the neighbors had turned and walked away. “I’m sorry,” she sighed tearfully, but no one was listening.
Olivia pulled the luggage from the car and tugged it through the lobby of the building. She heaved and pushed to maneuver the things into the elevator, then one by one dragged the suitcases and cartons of souvenirs to the far end of the seventh floor hallway. Not a single person came to help—husbands who suggested lending a hand would be the neighborly thing to do were quickly shushed by their wives. “Help that hussy?” they’d snarl, “the woman who murdered Charlie?”
Once the last of the bags had been carted into the apartment, Olivia closed and bolted the door behind her. She fell upon the bed—the same bed where Charlie had kissed her mouth and made love to her, the same bed where he’d promised to love her for a thousand years. How, she wailed, could he have misled her with such a foolish promise when in truth he had less than a thousand heartbeats to offer? And, how could she, a woman with such a practical nature, have given up everything and waltzed off like a love-crazed schoolgirl? Now here she was, all alone in an unfamiliar place, with neighbors who banded themselves together and turned against her as they would a person carrying the plague.
By morning Olivia had decided the boundary of her new world would extend no further than the threshold of Charlie’s apartment. For almost three weeks, she cracked the door open early in the morning, stuck her arm out far enough to retrieve the daily newspaper, then locked herself inside. She used an outdated carton of powdered milk for her coffee, ate tins of Spam and baked beans for supper, and once she’d finished the only can of orange juice in the freezer, simply did without fruit. With her life turned topsy-turvy as it had been, the balancing of five basic food groups seemed of little concern.
Three weeks to the day Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville, there was a knock on the apartment door. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Clara Bowman,” the voice answered.
Olivia slid back the bolt, opened the door and without saying a word, stood there looking Clara square in the eye.
“I hate to intrude,” Clara said frostily, “but I believe I left my yellow sweater in Charlie’s closet and with the weather turning somewhat cool…”
Olivia swung the door open and motioned Clara inside.
“Thanks.” Clara strolled over to the hall closet, rummaged through a jumble of hangers, and tugged loose the sweater. “This is it,” she said tucking it under her arm. With one foot already out the door, Clara turned back to Olivia and asked, “Are you alright?”
It was a fair enough question, for Olivia had developed the look of a ghost. Where there had once been a fullness of face, she had turned gaunt; her eyes were rimmed with red and a grey ash of sadness had settled upon her. “I’m fine,” Olivia answered politely.
“But, you don’t look…” Before she could carry on with the thought, the door swung shut. Clara, a woman known for her keen observations, was not about to let a question go unanswered. She rang the bell for a second time; then pounced forward when Olivia opened the door. “You don’t look good!” she said pushing her way back into the apartment.
“Excuse me?” Olivia stammered in a somewhat indignant fashion.
“You look sick.” Clara replied and tromped through to the kitchen. “Like a person who’s not been eating!” She yanked open cupboard after cupboard and glared at the almost empty shelves. “No wonder,” she snarled, “look at this, not a crumb of food fit to eat!”
“It so happens, I like canned soup.”
“You like getting scurvy? Because that’s what people who don’t have fresh fruits and vegetables get!” Clara was shorter than Olivia but almost twice as wide, and built like a fireplug. She charged from the kitchen into the living room; “Why, this place is a mess,” she exclaimed, “…there’s a month’s worth of newspapers that need throwing out!”
“I’m not finished reading them,” Olivia answered.
“You’re finished!” Clara scooped up a huge armful of papers and stomped out the door, grumbling how it was shameful the way Olivia had been treated when she was so obviously distraught over the loss of her husband. “It’s Maggie Cooper’s fault,” she huffed, “Maggie never sees the good in people.” With that Clara disappeared down the hallway, but five minutes later she was back, bing-bonging the doorbell for a third time. She was carrying a laundry basket full of food. “You locked me out,” she said when Olivia opened the door.
“I thought you were gone.”
“Gone? I’m not even half-finished.” She reached into the basket and hauled out an orange. “Eat this,” she said, pushing the fruit into Olivia’s hand. Without another word Clara marched herself into the kitchen and set about making a chicken casserole. “It’s a good thing I got here when I did,” she sighed, “otherwise you never know…”
“Nonsense; feeling down about Charlie’s death is the only thing wrong with me.”
“Oh really? Do you think a person’s skin is supposed to be grey? You think eyes are supposed to be red as a beefsteak?”
Olivia had to admit she’d been unaware such was the case; she then settled in alongside of Clara and lent a hand to the peeling of onions. By the time the casserole was ready to take from the oven, she’d gone through the full tale of Charlie’s death, including the part about the unlucky opal.
“You poor thing,” Clara sighed sympathetically; then she dished up two plates of chicken, and set them on the table. She slid into the chair opposite Olivia and leaned forward, waiting to hear the rest of the story.
“There I was,” Olivia said when she got to the part about the convertible breaking down, “stranded by the side of the road, miles from civilization, no way to get home…”
“You did the right thing, honey. Getting yourself a good serviceable car is exactly what Charlie would have wanted you to do!”
Strangely enough, sitting there and talking openly as she was, Olivia started to feel a bit lighter—not quite as floaty as she’d felt from Canasta’s okra soup, but close. “Is there some sort of secret ingredient in this casserole?” she asked.
“Heavy cream,” Clara answered and shoveled a forkful into her mouth.
When Clara left what she now considered Olivia’s apartment, she went directly to Maggie Cooper’s and told Maggie they’d been all wrong about Olivia. “Why, the woman is devastated!” she said. “We owe it to poor Charlie to take care of his wife!”
Next Clara rapped on Henry Myerson’s door and gave him the same message. She then stopped off at Barbara Jean Conklin’s, Fred Magenheimer’s, Tillie Rae’s, and Susan Latimer’s, setting everyone straight as to what they should and shouldn’t do about the widow Olivia Doyle.
Before noon of the next day, Olivia had received eight condolence calls, six casseroles, three fruit baskets, and a spray of red gladiolas so large the delivery man had to turn sideways to squeeze through the apartment door. She’d also been invited to a Fuller Brush party, a gin-rummy luncheon and Friday night Bingo. When Olivia suggested she was not yet up to socializing, Gertrude Plumber turned a deaf ear and rambled on about how the group desperately needed someone to co-host the monthly pot luck dinner. “We ca
n’t possibly ask Louise to do it again,” she told Olivia, “…so, you’ve simply got to say yes.”
Although nothing could replace the sweetness of Charlie’s kisses, the sudden onslaught of friends and neighbors helped to brighten Olivia’s days. Her skin gradually regained its color and the redness left her eyes. Every once in a while, mostly when she was with Clara who soon became her closest friend, Olivia would feel a strange tugging at the corners of her mouth and before there was time to wonder what was happening, she’d find her face crinkled into a smile.
Ethan Allen Doyle
People think a kid’s got no brains, but I was smarter than Mama; leastwise I knew not to go sassing when Daddy was on the warpath. Mama, she didn’t care. She’d sass anyway—go shit in your hat, she’d tell him, even when she knew it meant a punch in the face. Seems she would’ve learned, but no sir, not Mama!
Daddy never even thought twice about punching people—but then he was mean enough to shoot the eye out of a bird for singing the wrong song. I ain’t one bit like my Daddy. He used to say I got Mama’s foul mouth and sneaky ways, but Mama said what I got was her love of living. I liked when she said that.
Me and Mama both knew Daddy would throw a shit-fit about us going to New York; but seeing as how she could unruffle his feathers anytime she’d a mind to, I figured she’d smooth things over when we got back home. I sure as hell never figured the fighting to get bad as it did.
Daddy should’ve just let Mama have her fling, then she’d of been done with it and we’d of come home—‘course I was wishing we’d see a real live Yankee game before we did. Now, that Yankee game’s gone to hell, along with everything else.
Truth and Consequence
It was one thing to hate your daddy so much that you sometimes wished him dead, but quite another to see his head split open like a rotted pumpkin. Ethan Allen huddled beneath the wisteria, afraid to move, trying with all his might to twist his brain around to believing that any minute Susanna and Benjamin would get up and stumble to the bedroom together. There had been plenty of fights before and nobody ever ended up dead—but then Scooter Cobb, a mountain of a man with fists the size of ham hocks, had never before gotten involved. Much as Ethan wanted to go see about his mama, he couldn’t force himself to leave his hiding place. When he tried to stand his knees buckled under; when he tried to crawl his arms stayed locked in place, and if he even thought about crying out for help his heart took to jumping around as if it would explode. There was no telling what would happen if Scooter came back.
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