by Holly Jacobs
I introduced Connie, Conner, and my mom around. Mom and Jerry went to work back in the kitchen. They were making pumpkin pies, each boasting that their pie recipe was the best. The kids started to set up tables. A little girl sat at one of the tables. “Hi, honey. Who are you?”
“Molly. My mom’s . . .” She pointed at Joanie, the waitress. “We’re gonna eat here today. Mr. Sam said I can have the drumstick.”
“Molly, you remind me of my girls when they were little.”
“I’m not little,” she insisted with all her five- or six-year-old might.
I nodded seriously. “Sorry. You’re right; you’re not little at all.”
I pitched in, setting up the tables so they lined up to form one long table. I covered each with mismatched tablecloths. Sam had a box filled with gourds and ornamental corn and I arranged some as a centerpiece.
Connie came up behind me and put an arm over my shoulder. “Lookin’ good, Mom.”
“You worked at it, too.”
“I’m not talking about the table. I’m talking about you. You look good. Better than you have in a long time. What’s changed?”
I knew she was asking a serious question, but today wasn’t about serious, it was about family—about giving thanks. So rather than answer, I hugged her. “A new haircut. You know what they say, a good one can make all the difference.”
She didn’t try to get more out of me; she just grinned and said, “Then next time I’m in town, make me an appointment at your salon.”
A while later, the door opened and a stranger walked into the room. Sam was still in the back cooking, so I went over to greet him. “Welcome.”
“Is Sam around?”
“He’s in the back. Let me go back and get him for you.”
I didn’t need to go back. Sam came out of the kitchen and the stranger hollered, “Romeo!”
“Grid?” I said, more to myself than to him.
But he heard me. “Do I know you?”
When Sam had talked about Grid, I’d pictured a huge man, someone straight from some military movie. Tall, buff, hard looking. Instead, Grid wasn’t much taller than my five feet, five inches. And he looked like a man who was quick to smile.
“No, but I know you. Thanks for everything you did for Sam.” I didn’t say anything more because the two men were hugging each other, in that guy way that involved a lot of backslapping, as if to prove they were manly, despite the display of affection.
“I brought someone along with me.” The door opened again and a stunning woman came in, followed by a short, squattish, very bald man.
“Mom, Richard,” Sam said. This time the hugging didn’t involve backslapping. “I want you all to meet everyone. Starting with Lexie. A good friend.”
Three sets of eyes studied me, as if weighing what precisely Sam meant by “good friend.” I didn’t know that I could have come up with a better definition myself.
People mixed and visited. My mother sat at a booth talking to Sam’s mom, while Richard and Jerry sat at the bar watching some football pregame on the television.
My kids were chatting with Joanie—Connie had Molly on her lap.
I stood in the corner, just watching everyone and feeling this warmth practically spill over me. Then Sam was standing next to me. “I’d say it was a pretty good party,” he said.
I looked up at him, my ‘good friend,’ and took his hand in mine. “The best.”
An hour and a half later, the long table was filled with friends, family, and Sam. I wasn’t sure exactly where he fit. He was more than a friend, but not quite family. He was . . . Sam. I decided that was enough of a definition.
“Before we start eating, I thought we’d all go around the table and name what we’re thankful for,” Sam said. “I’ll start. New friends. Old friends. Family.”
Friends and family was the theme as everyone went around. Molly switched things up a bit because she was thankful for pumpkin pie and drumsticks—in that order.
I was sitting next to Sam, who’d started at the opposite side, so I was last. “Like everyone else, I’m thankful for friends and family—those who are here with us and those who aren’t. And I’m thankful for one-thing.”
Sam turned and smiled at me. Jerry, across the way, smiled as well. Some of the regulars understood. Joanie did. But my family and Sam’s looked confused. None of us enlightened them. It was a private thing.
A bar thing.
A Monday thing.
When I looked around me, I realized just how much I had in my life, and I was very thankful for that.
It had been a long time—too long—since I’d considered that.
I stood on the back porch, a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. It was too early for Angus, who hadn’t budged when I got up.
It was so cold that it was like breathing in . . . Well, ice cubes sounded like the logical analogy, but ice melts and its ragged edges smooth over as it warms. There was no smoothing of the freezing air I inhaled. It scratched at my nose and lungs as I breathed. So, sand. It was so cold it was like breathing in grains of sand.
I stood there in the dark, cold morning and I was very aware of the fact that I was alone out here. Normally Angus was at my side, a bit of life to remind me there was something else out there, but now, it was just me. The nighttime animals had gone to bed, and the daytime ones hadn’t begun to really stir yet.
I hugged my sweater to me with my one free hand, and as I did so I realized I was wearing my wool Irish, cable-knit sweater.
I’d bought it at a small corner shop in Dublin. Memories of that trip flooded through me, like a slide show.
I remembered.
I realized I was crying. My tears felt frozen on my cheek. They bit and scratched more than the cold that rattled like so much sand in my lungs.
I remembered and I cried.
When I was too numb to do more of either, I went in with my cup of now-cold coffee, woke Angus, and headed to the workshop. I studied the tapestry on the loom, with its half-finished picture of Guinness on its dots. Normally, I felt driven to finish, but I couldn’t bring myself to work on it today. I couldn’t think of Ireland and everything that happened after. Not now. Not yet.
Today I needed something fresh. Something that wasn’t about the past. I’d spent the last year wallowing in it. I needed something that was about the here and now.
I braved the weekend after Thanksgiving shopping frenzy and went into town to buy some fresh clay.
It felt good to be back at the wheel. This was my true talent—my true art. I learned about and dabbled with other mediums, but pottery . . . I don’t know that I can describe it, but it’s home. There’s something so primal, so tactile about wedging the clay, a sort of kneading motion. Then shaping it into a ball and placing it in the center of the batt.
But what I really love is the forming of the object. What was once a lump of clay, through the power of my hands and inner vision, becomes something else entirely. A bowl. A plate. A vase. Some might say there’s more artistry in the glazing, but to my mind that’s just the frosting. It’s the pottery itself that’s the heart of the creation.
I worked on a bowl. Something small, but substantial. Maybe Sam would like it for peanuts on the bar.
The thought made me smile and I started to sing Saucy Sailor. It was an old tune. I wasn’t even sure where I’d learned it, but it had a nice beat. They used to tease me in school because I frequently sang as I worked. The rhythm of a song melded with the rhythm of the wheel and my hands.
I’m not sure how long I worked, but Angus barked and pulled me from the song and the bowl.
The door opened and Sam was there. “You were singing.”
“I was. It’s been a long time since I sang.”
“You have a nice voice.” He chuckled. “That sounded inane.”
“It was a compliment; thanks. What’s up?” Talk about inane. What’s up?
“I was out running errands and found myself here. I hope you don’t m
ind.”
“I don’t.”
I stood there in my apron, my hands covered with clay, staring at Sam bundled in a winter coat, in boots. “It’s snowing?”
“Started early. How long have you been in here?”
“Long enough. Would you like to come up to the cottage?”
“I’d like . . .”
His sentence trailed off as in large, quick strides he covered the space that separated us. I knew what he had in mind and I welcomed it. I met him and his kiss. There, covered in clay, a storm brewing outside, I kissed Sam Corner and something that I’d thought was gone forever was back.
Maybe some things.
There was happiness.
Yearning.
But there was something more than that. I wasn’t sure I was ready for it, so I just let that feeling hunker down in a corner and wait.
I was ready, however, to take Sam into my house and into my room.
And there was happiness.
Later that day, I was wearing my favorite Woolrich slippers, a pair of panties, and a soft, button-down denim shirt that was probably another rescued Conner-castoff as I pulled some chicken soup out of the freezer and popped it, frozen, into a pan.
“You’re still singing,” Sam said as he came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.
“I’m still happy.”
“What’s the song?”
I had to think a moment about what I’d been mindlessly singing this time. It was the same song. The family used to call that a skip. I’d get a song stuck in my head and like an old vinyl record, keep skipping on it. “It’s an old, traditional one. Saucy Sailor. It’s about a man who’s come back from sea and asks his girl to marry him. She turns him down, telling him he’s ragged and smelly. When he tells her he has silver in his pocket, she changes her mind, but it’s too late. He’s going to find another girl to marry.” I hummed a few more bars.
“I like it on you.”
“The song or the slippers?” I held up my right, red-and-black checked slipper for emphasis.
“The happiness.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that Sam recognized my current mood. “You helped put it there.” He didn’t respond to that. “Can I tell you one thing, Sam?”
“Here?”
“It’s not really a one-thing. It’s just a friend sharing a memory with a friend.”
He nodded and just waited in that particularly Sam way of waiting. He waited as if whatever I was about to say was the most important thing in the world to him. As if there was nothing but him and me.
“The last time I remember feeling like this, truly happy . . .”
Lexie laughed as the kids stood at the edge of the water. May on Lake Erie wasn’t for the faint of heart. The lake’s temperature hovered somewhere in the fifties. When she was young and foolish, she’d skipped school with friends and come here. She could still remember how the water had bitten sharp, stinging nips at her skin as she jumped in with them.
“Come on, Mom,” Conner called.
“I’m too old to be that foolish. You all go ahead.” But instead of jumping in the water, the three of them came and grabbed her hands, pulling her from the blanket. “No, seriously. I’m not getting in that water. It’s too cold. I’m too old . . .”
The kids paid no attention to her protests. Conner was almost as tall as his father now, and he pulled on one hand while the two girls teamed up on the other. Dragging her closer and closer to the water’s edge.
“I am your mother; you wouldn’t.” Lexie tried to sound stern, but the kids only laughed harder as they continued to pull. “Kids . . .”
And with that, all four of them were in the water.
The water was sharp and stung at her skin. Lexie cried out, but she wasn’t alone. The kids all screamed as well, and all four of them bolted from the water, laughing. Happy, despite the chill.
“It was so cold that we gathered up our things, got in the car, and turned the heat on, full blast. We rode home and made hot chocolate. Lee came in and found the four of us, huddled under blankets, sipping the cocoa from our mugs and said, ‘It’s almost seventy degrees outside.’
“The kids and I smiled at each other, sharing the newly formed memory. And I was happy. Bone deep. Complete. I don’t think I’ve been that utterly, contentedly happy since.” I paused and embraced him. “Until now.”
Sam spent Saturday with me. He said he’d hired a new part-time bartender and he called him in to take care of the crowd. I slept in Sam’s arms.
That sounds like a small thing. I went to sleep with someone and slept in his arms. But in a way, sleeping next to Sam was more intimate than making love to him. There’s a vulnerability when we sleep. And I’d never slept in any man’s arms except Lee’s. Even Jensen, who I’d dated so briefly, had never spent a night with me.
I woke up before Sam and watched him sleeping. He needed a shave, but he’d have to wait for that until he went home, unless he could make do with a pink disposable razor and some women’s baby oil–scented shaving cream.
On that thought, he woke up. “What’s that smile about?”
“I was wondering if you were confident enough in your manhood to shave with a pink razor.”
Turns out, he was.
Clean-shaven and bundled up, we took Angus for a long Sunday morning walk.
There were a few inches of snow, and Angus acted as if he’d never seen the stuff before. He galloped through it, he ate it, and finally rolled in it.
There was something so easy about being with Sam like this. We didn’t talk, but simply enjoyed the morning in each other’s company.
We walked past the church up the road and they were singing. If it had been just Angus and me, I might have stopped to listen, but I didn’t. I kept walking and listened to the music slowly fade away as we got farther away, and I tried to ignore the realization that I missed going to services. Maybe soon I’d be ready.
By the time lunch rolled around I felt a headache start to build just behind my eyes. By supper, the headache had exploded and I ached from head to toe and my nose was so congested I could hardly breathe.
Sam tucked me in and spent that night too, but spent it on the couch. He got up periodically to check on me. It had been a long time since someone worried when I had a cold.
“No bar tonight,” he proclaimed Monday morning.
“For you or for me?”
“Both of us.”
“It’s sweet you want to stay with me, but it’s just a cold. How about we compromise? I’ll give up this one Monday, but you should go to work.”
“I could call Chris, the new bartender.”
“Or you could go.”
“Will you call me if you need anything?”
“It’s just a cold, Sam, but I promise I’ll call.”
He left, still looking concerned. I laid back knowing that if I called, he would rush back to my side.
That was a powerful gift he’d given me.
As I dozed in my germ-infested isolation on Monday and Tuesday, I dreamed about the Erie house.
Conner’s room had a closet that sat right above the stairway, so it was really only half a closet. The floor of it was about two feet off the ground. Since Conner had an aversion to hanging up his clothes, the kids had used it as a play area. That play occasionally included locking one or the other of them up in it.
I dreamed I was locked in the closet and I could hear the family outside the door. I didn’t try to get out, but simply leaned back against the slanted back wall and listened. I could hear Gracie out there, laughing with the twins. I could hear Lee.
I dreamed about the claw-footed bathtub. On particularly hard days, the thought of escaping for an hour into a bubble bath was all that kept me going. I dreamed of bubble baths and scented candles. I woke up and could smell the honeysuckle candle I’d used.
On Wednesday I felt almost human, and I knew it was time to clear out the old house. I felt like I was—if not making a new be
ginning—getting close to making a new beginning. I knew that there were still hurdles to overcome before I could close the door on the past. The house in Erie was one of them.
It had been over a year since I’d been back. I kept it warm enough that the pipes didn’t freeze and I paid the bills, but otherwise, I ignored its existence, as if by ignoring it, I could ignore the painful experiences that happened there. But I couldn’t outrun those memories by running away from home to the cottage. I was still caught in them. I needed to face them in order to truly be free of them. If I’d learned anything from my Mondays with Sam, it was that ignoring things didn’t work.
I called Conner and Connie and asked if they could meet me at the house in Erie that Friday night. They both still had things there that they might want to claim. Plus, I thought this should be a family affair. We’d experienced so much between those walls. We should say good-bye together as well.
I got there early. Although we needed to do this as a family, I needed some time on my own there first.
Glenwood Hills was a lovely section of Erie, just south of Thirty-Eighth Street, one of the main roads through town. The houses were old and predominately brick. The streets were tree-lined. One of the neighbors had shoveled the sidewalk in front of the house and I stomped my way up the still snow-filled stairs.
I pulled the key from my purse and I realized that the keychain felt foreign. Once I’d used it daily, but it had languished in a drawer for so long it had lost that sense of familiar, much like this house itself. I remembered moments in it, but it had ceased feeling like home. The cottage was my home now.
I stood on the stoop, holding the key in my hand.
I’d unlocked this door thousands of times. I’d unlocked it while juggling anything from groceries to babies. I’d unlocked it in every type of weather, thankful for the overhang that sheltered the three steps up and the small stoop.
I slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it. It was a bit sticky, which made sense because it had sat unused for so long.
I put my coat and my boots on the same hook and same spot on the mat that I’d used for years.
