The Widow’s Husband

by Sheila Evans

  “Does anyone have a sports car here? Isn’t there anyone I can talk to about it?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Don’t pay much attention to cars. All I know is security’s real good, no break-ins, no car clouts. Of course that doesn’t mean you can get silly about it. You still have to lock up.” She jangles keys. Time to go.

  Then she adds, “Well, now that I think about it, there is a gal here with a little red something-or-other. Maggie, a redhead, beautiful hair. Let’s see, is she home? No, don’t see her car and her drapes are pulled. She lives in that one over there, hasn’t been here too long, but a nice person. You could talk to her. Let’s go knock, just in case.”

  I lose my breath, can barely mutter about not having time, I am so busy, have an appointment, need to be on my way. But thanks, anyway. I’ll think about the unit, talk to the realtor. I drive home shaking with nerves, sweating in my silk blouse, swimming in adrenalin.

  Well, at least now I know. The immediate question is what can I do, I have to do something. Action is called for, exertion, to counter emotional and mental stress.

  I stop at an up-scale produce market to buy apples, pie apples if such can be gotten—I have no sense of the season anymore, or of the year. My year has lost its grounding; I am adrift. But I am going to change that, I am going to get my bearings.

  In the past, the kitchen was my refuge from Emmett’s TV blaring a ballgame or a war or a special about some endangered animal. It was my refuge from Amy’s teenage pouts and sulks, her endless stream of boyfriends and loud music and squealing cars. To escape the noise and confusion, I turned to baking bread, to putting up preserves, to the exotic terrain of calzones, frittatas, Indian curries. I will see if cooking still works. I will make an apple pie, a real apple pie involving apples, and not glue, for Mr. Purdy. To thank him for helping round up the errant newspaper recycling, and as an apology for the water shut-off so long ago. My family has put the poor man through enough.

  CHAPTER 5

  I drive home from Singing Waters and the grocery store in a puzzling state: half of me is numb, and the other half wants to do some violent cooking. Underneath it all, I yearn to crawl in a hole and brood, as if my discoveries about Emmett were a clutch of eggs. Although to be honest, I knew what I’d find in that condo development. Anybody with half a brain would have put it together long ago.

  Then I turn the corner, and a stray shock of rage explodes behind my eyes: just what I need now—Amy’s yellow Mustang’s in the driveway. I park behind it—we’ll have to do a car shuffle when she leaves—and sit there for a minute trying to calm down. Then it occurs to me that my anger, although misplaced, indicates a recovery of sorts going on. When I’d been down, really low and sad, feeling helpless and vulnerable, I hadn’t allowed myself to experience anything but love and servile gratitude for Amy’s presence. Amy had felt it, too, the cloying constraints of bereavement. Yes, a little ruffling is good, wholesome.

  I stagger in under bags of food. Have bought groceries like a mad woman, shopping and spending as if to spite Emmett. Treat myself to all the things he’d disliked, disapproved of. Okay, a food rebellion. That’s what I’ve engaged in.

  In the dining room, Amy sits at my table, with the sympathy cards fanned in front of her. “Mom, where have you been? I’ve been waiting and waiting.” She’s still in her workout suit, a black body stocking, and I can smell that heated lemony scent—Amy’s lotion, or shampoo. She slathers on so much, of so many items, and had told me once, in all seriousness, that lemon is her signature scent. I’d been impressed with such dedication and organization, and bemused that Amy would think such a thing important.

  Her eyes are red and puffy, and I’m taken aback: she’s been crying. “Oh, honey,” I say, setting down my sacks. “What’s the matter? Your dad again? I know, it’s so sad—”

  “It’s not that. Well, yeah, it is. I never understood how great he was … and now he’s gone. The kind of guy you could trust, you could count on, you know?”

  “Uh, yeah, count. On. You could say that. I suppose.”

  “Not like Larry.”

  “Larry? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  A loud wet snuff, then Amy wipes her nose on her hand. Her nails are painted dark blue. “Larry wants to split. While I was staying here with you, he met someone else, he wants to move in with her.” Her eyes blaze with tears again, angry tears. “Not that I give a rat’s ass, that jerk. It’s just that, oh, I don’t know what’s the matter with me. What’s the point, why am I here.” It’s not a question, but a flat statement of useless fact. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Sure, I would. Uh, well, maybe not totally. But I know how it feels to get left.”

  “I’m not getting left! See? I knew you wouldn’t understand. By the way, where have you been? I thought you were going to be here. I had to use my key to get in. I’ve been waiting at least forty-five minutes.”

  “I went out to look at a townhouse in Singing Waters. You know where that is?” I stop unloading the groceries to watch Amy’s reaction, although it’s unlikely that Emmett confided in her.

  “You’re looking at townhouses? You’re moving? What’s going on! No one tells me anything, my own mother!” Amy’s eyes flash. “And what’s with all this food! You’ve been complaining about the refrigerator being too full.”

  “I’m not moving into a townhouse, at least not unless I have to. Certainly not the kind in Singing Waters, they’re too expensive. All this food, really, I’ve just got the ingredients for, well, mainly, a pie. I’ve decided to do a pie, for Mr. Purdy.”

  “Mr. Purdy! You’re making him a pie? You’ve got more than pie here. I see peanut butter, graham crackers, lemons, cheese, avocados, asparagus—”

  “Yeah, I know. Never shop when you’re hungry.” I chuckle, hoping to jolly Amy, or at least defuse her. “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Purdy, he’s been a good neighbor all these years. Time we were nicer to him.” I add in a cajoling tone, “Amy, look at these apples. Aren’t they a perfect color? Neon green, they glow. Did you ever see nicer Granny Smiths? They practically sing! And smell them, like perfume.”

  “Mom, they’re just apples!”

  “I know, just apples.” I laugh, belittling myself. “I got the cheese to grate into the crust, and real butter, too. I’m tired of that pseudo stuff you dad tried to eat. Fresh cinnamon, cloves … an honest-to-God lemon. Amy, I used to make a good pie, time to see if I still remember how.” I busy myself with paring the apples, determined to hold my own.

  “Do you have to do that now?”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “I should have known you’d be too busy for me.”

  “Amy! I’m not too busy for you. That’s not fair! I’m right here, peeling apples. I want to get this in the oven tomorrow, and you have to let apple slices sit under the sugar overnight. That way they don’t puff up big empty air pockets under the crust. Tell me about Larry, I can listen and peel at the same time.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Next week he’s moving out. Period. I was wondering if you wanted to go somewhere with me, for a day or two. I don’t want to watch him pack.”

  “Maybe you should stay home and keep an eye on what he takes.”

  “Mother! I trust him, he wouldn’t take anything that didn’t belong to him!”

  I shoot her a look. Is it too early to tell Amy what I’ve found out? Instead I say, “I’ve been thinking about trees. You know how your dad knew trees? How he could name them off, pick them out? Remember that joke of his about the little sapling growing up in the forest, among birches and beeches? One of the big trees asked the little tree what kind he was, and he looked around and said, ‘I’m either a son of a birch, or a son of a beech.’ Your dad liked that joke. I remember once someone said cattails grew from sea-level to over five thousand feet, and your dad said, ‘Wow, that’s some cattail’.”

  Amy’s lips twitch, she doesn’t want to smile and ruin her rich purple pout. Ins
tead, she bursts into real tears, as I’d been expecting. As a child, and as an adult, Amy cried rather than relinquish the leverage of a stony mood. “Really, Amy, what can I do? Just tell me.” I keep on peeling apples on my side of the counter, determined not to be drawn into it. I have enough already.

  “Do you want to go away with me for a day or two, or not? Probably next Saturday and Sunday, maybe Monday. Larry and I are both off then, I can be out of there when he comes for the rest of his stuff. Most of it’s already gone. He says this is my fault, that I was over here too much.”

  I put down my knife. “Now, wait a minute, are you going to blame this on me? That’s not fair.”

  “Oh, Mom, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I need to get my head straight, breathe some air that’s not poisoned. Besides, you’re not doing anything.”

  “Not yet, but I may have to get a real job.” I draw a deep breath, edge into telling her about Emmett. But the sight of her at the table, thumbing through the sympathy cards—I can’t do it. Cannot form the words to say that her father had had a mistress, had ravaged our finances to support her. Not yet.

  “Yeah, Mom, you might want a job. You’ll get bored, without Dad to take care of.”

  Without Dad to take care of. I undergo a small shiver of expectation, of anticipation. Of satisfaction. Nothing as strong as happiness, not yet, but a brief flick of peace. Yes, a kind of peace, a mere blip, an inkling. I know I’m regressing into a puzzling state, a treacherous state. I’m waffling on the slippery edge of self-indulgence. Internal discipline, my sole restraint, is not strong. I am dangerous, fierce with freedom, giddy with it, able to wield authority over my time, now that Emmett’s schedule and demands have been erased. The old order and rhythm are gone; I am on my own. It’s possible that I’ll go to pieces. It’s possible that I will sit and stare at a wall all day. I can slop around in my bathrobe. I can, I do, skip dinner, a meal formerly planned around the Heart Association’s pyramidal guidelines. I can eat popcorn with real butter for breakfast, ice cream right out of the carton at any time of the day. I can drink whole milk. Slice open an avocado and spoon up the entire fruit right out of the peel. Emmett had had a low opinion of avocados, said they were “slimy,” but now avocados are mine, oh, the power and freedom! And asparagus, I can eat whole pounds of asparagus—Emmett hadn’t liked asparagus, said it made his pee stink. “So who’s going to smell it?” I said.

  The joy of my new freedom can wane, I can put the brakes on it myself, out of guilt or self-spite, or even out of love. For I had loved Emmett, I had treasured him. He’d been my prize, awarded by some fortunate fluke of nature or fate or happenstance. My memories are pieces of gold, my treasures. I hoard them, shuffle them out one by one, burnish them with use.

  Emmett bringing me a bouquet of sweet peas after Amy was born. Such fragrant flowers, they’d perfumed the entire semi-private ward I’d been assigned to after the difficult birth that made Amy an only child. Humble flowers from my mother’s yard—so stony broke we’d been back then, every penny counted.

  Emmett, one Mother’s Day, making me a special breakfast, an offering of broiled tomatoes, eggs, and potatoes. How proud he’d been, bringing in a tray—breakfast in bed, a thing I secretly dislike, hinting of dissolution, terminal illness. Stained sheets. But I never would have said that to him, so overcome I’d been.

  Emmett at the beach with tiny Amy, who toddled around with a pail and a spoon. Amy’s hair had been long and silky, and white-blond, as Emmett’s must have been as a child. Amy wearing a lemon yellow sundress I’d made her—so good with her sunshine complexion, so different from my own dark brunette. Emmett had been captivated, the proud indulgent father to the charming little daughter. Too bad that bond, that connection, hadn’t held.

  Most of all, meeting Emmett for the first time in that junior college cafeteria. Remembering it as if it were the opening shot of color in a black-and-white life. Wandering around and around, with that overloaded tray, the huge room echoing with high-strung jovial spirits, the edgy kind I feared could erupt in barbarism. It was early in the term; in-groups and cliques with exclusionary powers hadn’t coalesced. Everyone was there, the smokers, the burn-outs who’d be gone by Veteran’s Day, the cheerleaders, the Asians and the Mexicans and the Blacks, the grim and serious math and science people.

  My tray balanced precariously, my mother’s injunction to “eat a good lunch” in my ears; shy, awkward, embarrassed, I threaded my way through the mob, not knowing a soul. Emmett, lounging out his legs, so sexy—he’d always been the sexiest lounger—almost tripping me. He scrambled to his feet, he jostled close to me. Close enough for me to smell his scent, his Wildroot Cream Oil, his … something I couldn’t place that seemed the essence of maleness. Gun oil, he told me later, it was gun oil. He’d just come from a meeting of the Rifle Club.

  Emmett, shambling, shuffling—Emmett off-balance! Then offering me his chair. Such consideration and courtesy and manners … such superficiality! Nevertheless, my first impression had been of sensitivity and strength, not exactly a lie, but now that I think about it, not worth its weight in gold, either.

  I had loved Emmett. But I wonder now if the reality of love has somehow not been satisfactory, not what it’s cracked up to be. If love leaves you unprepared and vulnerable, if love does not contribute to feelings of self-worth, security, achievement, if love does not add to your happiness in any trustworthy way, what good is it?

  Amy is now leaning on her elbows, on the dining room side of the counter. “Mom, what about that apple? Aren’t you going to peel it, too?”

  “I’m saving that one. Going to grate it into my pancakes tomorrow morning. Remember how your dad loved apple pancakes with ginger, and sour cream and honey? That was back when he could eat—”

  And I’m weeping into the sink. The water in my head will drown me, it will dissolve my bones … it’s too much. I am tired, stone tired. Amy comes around the counter, puts her strong lemon-scented arms around me. “There, there, I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I’m bringing you down. Let’s get out of here, I know where to go There’s this neat town north of the Bay Area, in the redwoods. There’s an Italian restaurant, and little cabins in the woods. I’ll make a reservation. Come on, Mom, we used to be friends. We can be friends again.”

  “I didn’t know we’d quit,” I blubber.

  “We didn’t quit. It was just hard, around Dad.”

  “How did Dad stop us from being friends?” I wipe at my face, wait to hear her answer.

  Amy bites her lip. “I don’t know … I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Listen, let’s just get away from here, take a couple of days off, okay? I’ll treat you.”

  “I can’t let you spend all your hard-earned money.” But then I wonder how much I have to spend.

  “So, let’s split it, you pay for room, I pay for food. We can work out something.” Amy digs in the mini-pack she carries instead of a purse, comes up with Kleenex, passes me one, too, and we both honk into them. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot I picked this up for you, hope you don’t mind. Just an idea.”

  It’s a shampoo-in Lady Clairol application, a color called Burnt Almond. I frown, then mumble, “I dunno … you think my hair looks that bad?”

  “Fer cryin’ out loud! Not bad, you just need … oh, here, gimme that back—”

  “Not yet. Let me think about it.” I’m reading the directions when Amy leaves, thinking it might be just the thing. After all, Emmett used something on his hair; why shouldn’t I? In some perverse manner, this is another way to get back at him.

  Cabinets of plywood showing raw wood here and there under a coat of general grime. Countertops of Formica scrubbed through the design, edged with aluminum stripping. Green and brown indoor-outdoor carpet, wrinkled, worn and dirty with deep traffic patterns. In the air a subtle odor of neglect and abuse: the odor of an old man living alone. Mr. Purdy’s dark kitchen reminds me of my own before Emmett remodeled and took out a wall into the dining room. My
solid oak cupboards, a couple of years old now, had cost an arm and a leg … that’s what Emmett said. An arm and a leg. Which draws me up short. Had he borrowed against the stock to finish the kitchen project?And that trip to Baja, how much had it cost? We stayed at an El Presidente, a luxurious setting of splashing fountains, bougainvillea hedges, sunburst mosaics. True, it had been off-season, last September, but the expense must have been great.

  All this runs through my mind while I watch Mr. Purdy carve the apple pie. “My Millie,” he says getting down two Melmac plates, “she wasn’t much of a cook, tell the truth. But I do admire a pie, yessir, or ma’am I should say. You whip this up yourself?”

  “Well, sure, easy as pie, as they say. I used to bake for Emmett, before he, well, before—”

  To my surprise, he reaches over and gives my shoulder a gentle touch. “You and me, we know what it’s like getting left, having the one go on ahead of you. It’s not easy. You want ice cream? Maybe I got some vanilla.” He gets up to peer into a freezer compartment thick with frost. “Nope, just pistachio nut and peppermint.”

  “This is fine. I meant for you to have the pie, not me.”

  He’s wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants, and for the first time I notice how skinny and bent are his legs. Wishbone legs. (Later he tells me that he’d had rickets as a child.) “Good pie doesn’t need any ice cream,” he says. “It’s better yet when there’s someone to eat it with. Say, this’s got real apples in it. Flaky crust, too. Nice of you, to do this.”

  “Well, I wanted to thank you for helping me corral the trash. And to ask a favor.”

  “Sure. What can I do?”

  “Feed the cat for a couple of days while I’m gone. Going to take a break, go away for a change of scene. We used to have Amy come in and see to PawPaw, but she’s going with me.”

  “No problem. Be glad to. Millie used to keep cats. Sorta miss ’em, but I can’t get a cat, at my age. It’d outlive me.”