The Widow’s Husband

by Sheila Evans

  The mail is another form letter from a realtor; a slick flyer from a chichi department store; and the water bill, which isn’t so high now that I’m living alone. I put the water bill in my pocket, the realtor’s letter in the recycling, then flip through the flier. It’s the biannual white sale, clearances on bedding—and here it is, a bedspread I must have. White and black and yellow, a pulsing display of daisies, fantasy daisies, perfect. I hear Emmett’s voice, something about bumblebee colors, but this is the bedspread. I’ll buy it for myself out of the proceeds from Emmett’s stuff. I collapse in my chair, peaceful with the afternoon, with the time.

  A couple of kids wearing huge baggy pants and turned-around baseball caps carry their skateboards up the driveway. “You got any Nintendo games, or videos?” asks one of them. They’re of “minority” extraction, Filipino, South East Asian … Salvadorian?

  When I say no, they jump on their boards and zip down the drive in a heart-stopping display of agility, athleticism, and foolhardy disregard for traffic, even though the street’s a cul-de-sac and ends just above my house.

  “They’re going to break their necks,” I say.

  “Kids! Well, bless ’em. I tell you, it’s their turn, these young people coming on. We had our chance, now let’s see what they make of it. Can’t create a bigger mess than we done.”

  The afternoon doesn’t drag, it stops dead in its tracks. The sun freezes at an odd angle overhead and glares down, seeking us out even in the back of the garage. Only a few customers break the monotony. A guy with a silver buzz-cut stops by, asks about vacuum cleaners. No vacuums. I tell him, as a joke, that I’m looking for a vacuum, too, and if he finds a good one, let me know—I’ll arm-wrestle him for it … and this last part makes both of us blush. What is the matter with me! I want him to leave and take my embarrassment with him. But he lingers to poke through the household stuff, makes a little pile of miscellaneous this and that. He circles through gardening equipment, which is almost gone. Clutching the weed eater, he comes up to me. “I had one just like this. Did a dandy job, but the dickens to get started.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, well, just between you and me, that’s why it’s out here. It works okay, but I’ve got my eye on a new one. Although I’m job-hunting … gotta watch my pennies.”

  “Looking for a job? We’re hiring, or I should say, they are. Mountain Valley Cable. We’re swamped on account of this new digital system they’re introducing. Office’s down in the Fremont complex off Main. Why don’t you put in an application?”

  I look in my pockets, pull out the water bill, write on the back of it. “Mountain Valley Cable, you say? Thanks for the tip. Tell you what, I’ll knock half off the weed eater.” It wasn’t selling anyway.

  His turn to laugh. “I don’t have a yard anymore. Otherwise, that would be a deal.”

  “No yard … what a blessing. This one’s getting away from me. But I do the best I can,” I add hastily.

  “It looks okay. Just water it real good, then spread some weed ’n seed—it kills broadleaf stuff like dandelions and oxalis. Use a drop spreader and not one of those whirlybird things. You wouldn’t want to get it on your nice shrubs.”

  “Oh, sure, of course not.” I frown. What is he talking about?

  “A lot of gardeners just bite the bullet and dig out dandelions—they’re easy with one of those grabber things. Then too, there’s a big negative in using chemicals, poisons, especially if you’ve got kids.”

  “Well, I have kids, or one. But she’s not about to get down and play on the grass anymore. That’s her over there.” I indicate Amy, who’s sending over a smirk.

  “You’re kidding! You’re not old enough—well, excuse me, I don’t want to sound like, well, I don’t want to sound like I’m sounding.”

  I curl my lip. “That’s perfectly okay. You sound fine. When I show up at …” I look at the water bill envelope, “… Mountain Valley Cable TV, who should I say sent me?”

  “I’m Bruce, Bruce McDermott.” He sticks out a hand and we shake.

  “Uh, Peg Malone.”

  “Another Irisher.”

  “No, but my husband is, or was … he died last spring.” I busy myself bagging his pick of the litter.

  “Sorry.” He hands over a five-dollar bill.

  “No problem. Getting along fine,” I say, making change. “Thanks for stopping. And for admitting it’s the weed eater’s fault, and not mine.”

  As soon as he drives off, Amy hurries over. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “What did he buy?”

  “Exciting stuff. A spatula, bowls, mixing spoons, bread knife … let’s see, what else.”

  “That’s enough to tell me he’s a throw-out.”

  “What?”

  “His wife threw him out, he’s setting up his own kitchen.”

  “The way you jump to conclusions! Ridiculous!” I frown, am about to embark on a lecture, but Amy flounces back to her card table. I settle into my thoughts, delivering to myself a lecture: no more Silver Foxes. Absolutely not. I’m glad to be alone for a bit. Mr. Purdy has taken a break, I have the garage to myself.

  Then a surprising thing happens. The man with the sick wife comes back for the tow bar, but with only half the money. Mr. Purdy reappears, they talk over a deal, walking around the contraption, now on the lawn. Finally I see the buyer hand over some bills, the two men shake hands, and load the thing into a rattly pickup. Mr. Purdy watches it depart, shambles up the driveway on his wishbone legs, and shrugs. “What the hell.”

  Mr. Purdy is a good person, better than I am. He’s kind and tolerant, and understanding. I could tell him about Emmett, but why would I want to do that? Mr. Purdy has had enough troubles of his own. What I will do, I will make him some real gingerbread, serve it with applesauce and whipped cream.

  Only a smattering of people for a long time; then there’s a final rush. Among the newcomers is the manager from Singing Waters, who’d showed me the condo unit. She recognizes me, too. “Don’t I know you? Something about a sports car?”

  “Uh, well, actually—”

  “Yeah, it was you. Your husband just died? The one who smoothed out an embankment with the car and broke a water main?” She looks pointedly at Mr. Purdy who’s demonstrating a paint sprayer, kneeling before it as if it’s an idol, or a pet dog.

  “Oh,” I say hurriedly, “he’s not my husband, he’s a neighbor helping out.”

  “Cute man.”

  Cute? I am struck: men aren’t cute. Babies and puppies and knit tops are cute. Men are … intriguing (like that Bruce fellow), or rugged, distinguished, attractive, personable, interesting, maybe even handsome. Emmett had been handsome. But Mr. Purdy cute? His jowls hang down like turkey wattles, and his nose and ears sprout too many wayward hairs. He’s wearing brown polyester pants, and a green and brown plaid shirt, but the brown isn’t the same brown as the one in the pants. They’re both permanent press, and have seen better days. But he is cute, by damn, and I should come first with him, not Frieda.

  “A neighbor, huh?” The woman steps closer. “That makes me think, well, I want to tell you that you’d be a fool to leave this nice neighborhood. Singing Waters, it’s okay, but you never get to know anybody. The people leave in the morning, they come home at night, they go in their condos and shut the door. No sense of community. There’s nothing for them to do around the place on account of they got Miguel and Jesus and Jorge, and me and the maids, doing it all for them. I been there two years, and I don’t know a soul. Well, that’s just between you and me. A word to the wise. Don’t tell them I said that.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’m not going to move anyway. It was just a thought.”

  “That’s good. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. How much you want for this?” She holds out one of Emmett’s belts.

  “How about a buck.”

  “Wow. A bargain. I better look around some more.” She wanders off, then returns with a scarlet watered silk vest. Emmett wor
e it with a dark blue shirt. “How much?”

  “Uh, two-fifty.”

  “Can I have a bag? We came in the pickup, I don’t want it to get dirty.”

  Mr. Purdy sells the woman’s husband the paint sprayer, a set of jackstands, and portable ramps. After they leave he rubs his hands together, satisfied. “See? I told you there would be a spurt toward the end, a last gasp. Well, almost time to fold our tent and close down.”

  “Now I have to take in all this stuff, after all that work of getting it out here.” I want him to tell me not to bother, that he’ll take care of it for me. Load it into his pickup and make it disappear. As if he’s the father, telling the child it’s all right, go on to bed, I’ll clean up. He could be my father; he’s old enough. Then too, he doesn’t have anything else to do because most of what he brought over, and all of Frieda’s, has been sold, but only half of mine is gone.

  Then I think, half of it is gone, HALF! And I feel an upwelling of spirits, a relaxing of something that has been constraining me. Like taking off a tight bra, or shoes that pinch. Room! Freedom! Release! I feel too good to feel bad; maybe later, yes, I’ll work on a guilt trip later. But why should I? I no longer, nor did I ever, owe Emmett anything.

  Mr. Purdy surveys the leftovers, says with a shrug, “Sometimes what you think is your best stuff doesn’t move. Garage sales can fool ya. If I was you, I’d make a list, haul it down to the Humane Society’s Thrift Shop, then take it off your income tax, a deduction.” Then he says how much he’d enjoyed the day, what a treat to feel useful again. I smile, I smile a real smile. I say, me, too, I had a great day. A lovely time.

  Just as he’s leaving, I call out, “Mr. Purdy? Mr. Purdy, I don’t even know your first name.”

  “It’s Edwin. Or Millie called me Ed.” He comes back to me, holds out his hand. “Edwin, here, glad to meet you.”

  I laugh, shake his hand. “I’m Peg. Thanks, Edwin. Thanks, again for your help.”

  “My pleasure,” he says, and leaves.

  After counting the money, I tell Amy that despite slow sales, my share is enough for the dress, the earrings, and the bedspread. Then Amy goes home, too. I am glad to be alone. Before closing the door of the garage, now filled with leftovers, I glance at Emmett’s workbench. I’d cleared it off by sweeping the mess into one corner. It’s still there, but now takes up less room. One of Emmett’s poems … I go in the house to chase it down in that folder. Something about his workbench, about his ability to fix things. Yes. I read it again:

  I am a work of art; I am what God intended—

  All but my injured heart that must quite soon be mended.

  I’ll take myself apart, I’ll see what makes me tick—

  Unfolding life’s green chart—this ought to do the trick.

  My workbench boils with gear and wheel and sprockets,

  My soul struck dumb with fear, my brain with hands in pockets—

  Beyond me, I confess, this troubled bloodless gadget.

  A fixer once, now less—I’m tired, I’m sick, I’ve had it.

  He’d crossed out “broken” and put in “injured” so I’m not sure what he was getting at, but the rest of it’s pretty plain. Doggerel, really, because I understand that poetry, if it’s any good, shouldn’t rhyme. All his stuff’s heavy on rhyme. And heavy with the depression that gripped him toward the end. Ah, well. I’m tired; it’s late. Time to call it a day.

  When the garage sale dust cleared, when I got my wits about me again, I decided against that silk dress—what had I been thinking! But later that next week, to celebrate my new job, I did buy that bedspread and those pinecone earrings; after all, earrings like that will go anywhere, with anything. I’ll get my money’s worth out of them.

  To celebrate the earrings, to accommodate them, I had my ears pierced in a jewelry store in the mall. Amy said she’d do it with a needle and an ice cube, but the store was offering a special: if you bought gold studs, you got the piercing free.

  (Who the hell am I kidding … of course I’ll buy that dress. I can hardly wait to go down and try it on again. Then I’ll have the nice little clerk, a sweet thing done to the nines, wrap it in tissue, tuck it into one of those elegant Splurge bags. After all, I’m working hard honing an edge on my self-esteem: I deserve that dress.)

  (Plus, I deserve to be seen carrying that glorious bag—stiff silver metallic paper, with a crimson SPLURGE across its front, and cunning padded handles—I’ll treasure it, too, a memento. I’ll find a use for it.)

  CHAPTER 9

  About that new job, well, I go down to Mountain Valley Cable TV for an application, and they hire me on the spot. I tell Amy—this is that night, after my first day at work—that I got hired because of Emmett. The manager, Vi Corbet, had known Emmett, or actually her husband Ed had known him. So it’s due to Emmett’s influence that I succeed; but if he hadn’t sabotaged me, I wouldn’t have had to apply in the first place. Of course I don’t say this to Amy. Instead, I tell her about Tiffany. “If it’d been up to this little bitch Tiffany—”

  Amy laughs a bit snidely, “Mom, you’re so dramatic. You don’t even know this woman.”

  “Are you telling me not to validate the evidence that my own senses provide? Are you questioning my judgement?”

  She draws back. “No, of course not. Well, maybe a little. You’re not yourself lately.”

  “Why should I be? Where did being myself get me?” I take a breath. “By the way, would you please use a coaster under that glass? All the work I put into this table, I don’t want rings on it.” I know I’m pushing her, but I also know I can get away with it because her nails are painted rosy pink.

  “Oops, sorry. Go on, tell me the rest.”

  We’re having a quick pick-up supper of tuna salad, and I lay down my fork to better focus on my story. How I go up to the Customer Service desk and a girl (Tiffany) greets me, if you can call it that.

  “Help you?” she says around her gum, flicking a flat glance over my looking-at-condos dark suit, white blouse.

  “I heard you were hiring? I want to apply?”

  Without a word, but with a pained expression, she gets up, rifles through a file drawer. I’m thinking, oh, poor thing, she’s been ill.

  A thin girl, sallow, pasty skin, long stringy blond hair. Her part shows an inch of black roots; her eyebrows are plucked or shaved, and redrawn with harsh pencilled lines. Cancer? Chemotherapy, radiation? Later, that afternoon, Helen—the other clerk who works in the back—tells me it’s a practiced look, the punk thing.

  Amy rubs at the circle left by her glass, forks at her salad. “Punk! That is so over, so … juvenile. In the corporate world—” But she trails off, either because she can’t focus her thought, or she’s gotten a look at my expression, which must be war-like. I’ve had a hell of a day.

  I’ve got this job, yeah, and now I don’t want it. I long to go back to moping around the house, which seems, in retrospect, an enchanted existence. I feel my life taking a deep breath, about to speak, and I don’t want to hear what it has to say. No more than Amy wants to hear what I could say. In the corporate world … What could you possibly know about the corporate world? You spend your life in a Spandex workout suit.

  Anyway, Amy isn’t really paying attention to me. She has that muzzy expression—I know it well—indicating … a new love interest? How can that be? She was man-less at the garage sale only a Saturday ago. She hasn’t had time to reconnect, has she? This look, plus the nail polish, annoys me; I undergo a prickly shock, as if a part of me that had gone to sleep is waking up, getting the circulation back.

  “Okay, okay, Mom, go on with your story.”

  My story is that as Tiffany is about to hand over, reluctantly, an application, a woman more my age than Tiffany’s comes in the rear door and calls, “Everything okay, Tiff?”

  “She’s asking about a job.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Tiff, hon. You’re busy with that inventory.”

  “Yeah, sure, Vi.” Mor
e gum snapping.

  At this point, Amy pushes her plate away, props her pointed chin on a nail-polished hand. “Snaps her gum! Gross!”

  “Yeah, well, they’re not formal at that place. I was overdressed. The code’s sweatshirts and jeans and running shoes.”

  “Sweatshirts! Too hot!”

  “Not in there. It’s like a cave. On account of these old computers. Amy, the system they use, it’s those of F-stops across the top. No mouse.”

  At Amy’s blank look, I say, “Back to how your dad plays into this. Vi, her name is Vi Corbet, well, she takes one look at my résumé, says, oh, Malone, any relation to Emmett Malone? I say yes, and she says how sorry they were to read the obit. She comes around the counter, holds out her hand. I give her mine, by now I’m so nervous, it’s like offering her a dead fish. And … I got the job.”

  “I don’t understand the connection.”

  “Amy, her husband and your dad had been buddies in junior college.”

  “Great. Lucky for you.”

  “I don’t know how great. I mean, who is this Ed Corbet? I never heard your dad mention him. Lucky for me to get hired … I dunno. Vi goes on about how she wants someone mature, sensible. Does that sound like me?”

  “Sure does.”

  “She says she’s sick of these kids who think in ones and zeros, hardwired, like machines. Dyeing their hair green, covered with tattoos, piercings. Did I know, she says, that these kids can’t give blood on account of what they’ve done to their bodies? Who’s going to give blood when the whole generation has gone crazy?”