Sam asked the sum. Just about forty-two thousand dollars, he said.
That was worth almost two years of working at Lindell. All those days of freedom. Or a new car. A car and a trip. A trip somewhere new.
“That’s not chump change,” she said.
“No, it’s not. Which is why you want to be careful with it. I can help you weigh your options, if you like. But, that’s up to you, of course. If you’d rather I not interfere, I won’t.”
“No, it’s not that.”
He stood, came around to her side of the desk, and gently put his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded. Rather than brimming with joy, she felt drained and empty.
“It’ll take a couple of days to get the money from the brokerage firm, if that’s all right,” he said.
“Sure. You have my number, right?”
“You left it when you called.”
That had been only three days before. Now, if felt like a much longer time.
Sam stood. She hoped he wasn’t going to embrace her. He didn’t. He took a step back, leaving a wider space between them. At the last minute, she thought it appropriate to shake his hand, though when she did, she didn’t meet his eye.
chapter twenty-six
Sam said nothing to Flora about meeting Henry Delacourt. She spoke only of bland, neutral things—the weather, if they needed to buy more laundry soap, and how late in the day the new mailman swung by their place—which caused Flora to watch her with concern and suspicion. Those moments of scrutiny were short-lived, though, since she and Chuck had decided to marry.
“I finally gave in,” Flora said.
She beamed. At times she was giddy. Sam had never seen her that way, and was reminded of how Henry Delacourt had described her back in high school. The thought of an outwardly cheerful young woman who was in fact lonely, browbeaten, and mistreated gave her pause once again. She still fumed over the deceit she’d been handed, but it was tempered by seeing more clearly than ever before the emotional hardship Flora herself had suffered.
Flora and Chuck were going to live at his place. That meant for the time being, Sam would have the old house to herself.
“What do you mean, for the time being?” Sam asked.
“Chuck thinks I should put it on the market.”
“Does he?”
“You said you wanted to find your own place, didn’t you?”
“I suppose so. But, the house is in pretty bad shape. I don’t know how easy it’ll be to find a buyer.”
“Chuck says for the right price, it’ll sell in no time.”
The old farm two lots down from Lucy and Glen was for sale. Sam had seen in the paper that a developer had proposed a slew of new homes but was having a little trouble with the zoning board. New housing was in hot demand in and around Dunston, something to do with a small technology company that had been founded by a couple of graduates of the university. The company was growing, and people were moving in.
“I should probably start looking, then,” Sam said.
“Oh, take your time. There’s no hurry.”
Sam went to her room and sat at the same desk she’d used all the way through school. The desk was placed in front of a window that looked out over the rear of the property. It was a three-acre parcel, and since no homes had ever been built on the back of the adjoining plots, the view was uninterrupted. Sam couldn’t deny that it was peaceful. She’d always found it so, even when nursing her bruises, inflicted on her by angry hands.
To one side was a stand of trees and undergrowth that had never been tended. Sam had often thought of it as belonging to her alone because no one from the family ever went there. She walked its quiet seclusion when she was troubled, which she often was. One day, she offered something to the woods that she’d since searched for but never found.
She made a friend in the third grade, Missy Thomas. Missy was everything Sam wasn’t: petite, stylish, well cared for. Missy liked Sam for her brash nature and for being impossible to embarrass. When boys teased Sam, she just moved off. Sam became not only a friend but a protector. Missy had an older brother, a tall, handsome boy in the sixth grade, whose verbal abuse of his little sister was constant and merciless. One day on the playground, the brother, Davy, called Missy “ferret-face,” and Missy’s flawless blue eyes welled. Sam walked over to Davy and punched him hard on the arm. He was so surprised, he did nothing but gape. Missy invited Sam to go home with her that afternoon. Davy had Boy Scouts and wouldn’t be there to bother them.
Missy lived closed enough to walk. Her neighborhood was as charming as she was. The road she lived on followed a creek. They stopped to lean on the railing above and look down into the gentle rush of water. Missy told a story of being very young, maybe four years old, and having a passion for toothbrushes. It must have been their bright colors that she had liked. Her father bought her one whenever he visited the drug store. She took the newest toothbrush with her everywhere, and one day, walking with him by that very spot, she accidentally dropped it into the water. He went down the path by the creek’s edge and looked for it, with no luck. As she watched him climb back to her, she decided to be brave and not cry anymore. Sam loved that story. It was thrilling to think of Missy as someone with passions, wanting to possess things that made her happy. She liked the image of her father trying to recover her lost treasure.
Missy’s house was empty because both her parents worked at the university. Every day she returned to find a cupcake on a plate on the kitchen counter by an empty glass. The glass was for milk, which she could pour herself. Her mother set these things out before she went to campus in the afternoon. She was a professor, Missy said, and was only teaching one class that semester because she was going to have a baby. Missy hoped for a sister, not a brother. She didn’t know where she’d fit in with another boy in the house. Sam asked if Davy had a snack prepared for him, too, and Missy said no, he was old enough to take care of that himself.
Missy shared the cupcake with Sam. It had a luscious chocolate filling. They ate at the table in the formal dining room. Sam’s house didn’t have a formal dining room; they took their meals in the kitchen. Missy’s table and chairs were painted white. The seat cushions were red velvet. When they were done, Missy put the dish and glasses in the kitchen sink. Then they explored her parents’ bedroom. Sam was drawn by the large jewelry box on the dresser. It was made of wood and had three drawers, each with a gold-tone knob. Missy opened the lid for her. Sam looked down on a sea of glitter. Necklaces, bracelets, and rings lay carelessly jumbled on a bed of dark blue satin. The drawers were loaded, too. Missy said her mother had gotten a lot of her stuff when she was married before, and that her dad didn’t mind her keeping it, though she didn’t wear it very often, probably to avoid hurting his feelings. To Sam, they sounded like nice people, which made her feel a little awkward when she stole a yellow topaz pendant from the middle drawer while Missy was in the closet, pulling out a number of brightly colored scarves and lining them up on the four-poster bed.
Sam was sure that Missy’s mother would never miss the pendant, and nothing was ever said about it later. She kept the pendant safely hidden in her room, in the pocket of a homemade dress at the far end of her closet. Sometimes, she took it out and held it to the light, adoring its warm honey glow. Then she put it away, and let weeks pass before she looked at it again.
The following year, Missy’s dad took a job at another university, and the family moved away. They said their good-byes on the playground. Missy’s mother was there, with Missy’s baby brother in a stroller. She was a tall, elegant woman with a fine, slender throat, perfect for displaying the jewel Sam had pinched. That was the fir
st time Sam felt guilty, and the feeling never left her, even after she took the pendant to the dark stand of trees, closed her eyes, and threw it far away.
With the property going to strangers, the pendant might be found and celebrated with delight and wonder.
“How did it get here?” someone would ask. “Oh, what a lucky thing! Here let me put it on you.”
How odd that what bound her most strongly to this place had never really been hers at all.
That afternoon she got a call from Henry Delacourt saying he’d like to mail her a check for the sum they discussed. She asked him to hold off for another two weeks. Flora’s wedding would take place then, and until that time, she’d be “in and out,” as she put it. Seeing his name on an envelope would force a discussion Sam wasn’t ready to have. Would she prefer to pick it up at his office? No, that wouldn’t be convenient. She wanted to tell him about the stolen pendant, and realized that would sound weird. Maybe, if they became friends, she’d find a good moment to bring it up.
chapter twenty-seven
For Eunice’s last day at Lindell, her supervisor, Karen, held a tea in the common room. She set the time to fall during the afternoon quiet time so the staff could be free to come and wish Eunice well. Sam arrived forty-five minutes in to find Eunice and Meredith at a large table, an untouched plate of cookies before them, and two empty teacups. Because the saucers each had a spoon, it was clear that the tea had already been consumed. By the sink on the other side of the room were other cups, waiting to be washed. At least a few people had stopped in to say good-bye, Sam thought. But why did Eunice look so sad?
Sam joined them. Up close she saw that her eyes were wet.
“Her mother died last night,” Meredith said.
“Oh, no! I’m so sorry!”
“They said it was coming, after the broken hip and all. She just never seemed to bounce back,” Eunice said.
“That’s what I call rotten timing,” Sam said. She took a chocolate chip cookie from the plate and was annoyed to discover that it was actually oatmeal raisin. She ate it anyway.
“So funny to think of her being gone. I mean, we weren’t on the best of terms most of the time, but still,” Eunice said.
“She was your mother,” Meredith said. Then it was her turn to look glum. Constance had slipped into a coma the day before. Her time was coming, too, maybe that very day.
“I’m tired of all these people dying,” Sam said. Those words surprised her. The sadness around her had pulled something out she hadn’t known was there.
“I don’t mean your people—your moms, that is. I just mean everyone here, at Lindell. I know it goes with the territory—it’s a retirement community, right? But still, don’t you ever wonder sometimes what it would be like to work around younger people, or even kids? No one getting old and feeble, no one passing on.”
Eunice pushed her empty teacup further away from her and said, “I used to feel that way, back when I first started.”
That had been almost thirty years before. She couldn’t believe how long she’d been a part of the Lindell family. One of these days she should sit down and figure out just how many people she’d taken care of in that time, and try to remember them all. In the beginning, not long after she came on board, she was certain the job would only be for a little while, until something better showed up. Then she found that she really did have a knack for talking to old folks, and keeping them engaged. That was something her Grandma Grace had often said about her—she’d mentioned her before to both of them, right? She’d been a great old lady, full of piss and vinegar, if you’ll pardon the expression. Sam would have liked her, and Meredith too. And now, all these years later, Eunice realized that the one thing she’d done her entire life was take care of other people. That wasn’t a bad way to spend one’s time, was it? There were worse ways to make a living.
What Sam heard in her voice wasn’t exactly regret, but an acceptance of something that hadn’t always been easy, or made her happy. Eunice stopped talking.
“Do you want to take it with you now? Or come back later, when the room is being cleaned out?” Meredith asked her.
“Oh, I hadn’t really thought about it. Whatever’s easier, I guess. Now then, I suppose.”
Meredith explained that she was giving Eunice the needlework Constance had begun again with great energy, and then had to give up when that energy failed. She knew Constance would have approved. Eunice said she had no idea what she’d do with it, because she had no skill with that sort of thing at all and, in fact, couldn’t even thread a needle. But once she got Lillian’s Angels up and running, there might be any number of old ladies who’d be glad for a little project like that. Her face softened when she said it would be a fine tribute to Constance’s memory, wouldn’t it?
Meredith agreed. And she’d do her part with the community center. She already had a good idea of what classes to offer and who would teach them. She’d put out her feelers and had gotten quite a good response. People were so willing to offer their time, it warmed her heart, it really did. The tenants would be gone by the end of the year, and then the house could be seen to. There was a lot of furniture from Constance’s childhood that Meredith had absolutely no idea what to do with. She didn’t want any of it herself. Of course, it could all be sold, but there were some nice pieces that should go to a good home.
“You should come by when the time’s right and take a look around. I’d be glad to let you take your pick,” Meredith said to Sam.
“Me? Oh, well, thanks. I could use a good dining room table, though it should be on the small side. I’ll be moving into an apartment after my mom gets married and we sell our house. She said I could take anything I wanted, but our stuff is all junk. And when I say junk, I mean junk.”
One of the nurses entered the room quietly and whispered in Meredith’s ear. Meredith’s face froze. Sam had seen that look before. Meredith was most likely thinking what a shame it was that she hadn’t been at Constance’s bedside when she went. If she got the chance, Sam would tell her it was often that way, there at Lindell. Family gathered to watch and wait. Then they took a break, got a bite to eat, a cup of coffee, a breath of fresh air, and bam, that’s when it happened. As if at the end, the dying preferred to pass on in the company of strangers.
chapter twenty-eight
Flora was off on her honeymoon with Chuck in Old Orchard Beach, up in Maine, when Henry Delacourt called Sam. She’d received his check four days before, and had yet to deposit it. She explained that she was heading to the bank later that day, but that wasn’t why he’d called her.
“We didn’t get a chance to talk much about my life since your mother left it,” he said. “It’s not that I’m so fascinating, believe me, but I wanted you to know that I’m married and have two children, a son and a daughter. I’ve told them about you. Naturally, it was a bit for them to take in, but they’re sturdy, compassionate souls. And they’ve expressed a lot of curiosity. So, to get to the point, I wonder if you’d like to meet them?”
Maybe that fake family I made up for Suki wasn’t so fake after all.
Sam said she’d think about it and would let him know. He said they were about her age. The daughter was twenty, and the son was twenty-one. Sam had just turned twenty-three. Henry hadn’t wasted much time putting his life back together after Flora’s parents slammed the door in his face. But then, why should he have gone on waiting for something that would never be?
“Which makes me think,” Sam told Timothy over a beer at her place.
“Of what?”
“If maybe I’m doing the same thing, waiting for stuff that won’t happen.”
“Like?”
For one, success at something. She didn’t have any solid goa
ls. She said this plainly, no trace of despair or self-pity.
“Go to school. Study poetry. You’d be great at it. You probably know most of what they’d teach you,” Timothy said.
“And then?”
“You don’t have to map out your whole life. One thing at a time.”
Snow was on the way. The air smelled of metal. Sam hoped the old furnace would hold up just a few weeks longer, then it would be someone else’s problem.
“I need to find a place to live. The house is on the market,” she said.
Timothy took in the yellow wall oven with its missing knobs, the stove, also without a complete set of knobs, and the yellow refrigerator that leaned because of a dip in the floor.
“Well, not to be a downer, but it might take a while for someone to fall in love with it,” he said.
“I’m not waiting until it goes. I want to move now.”
“Move in with me. I’ve got room.”
“House or apartment?”
“House.”
“Will the landlord mind?”
“I’m the landlord. My mother bought the house for me. To promote stability in my life.”
Sam took a moment to imagine someone buying her a house.
“What do you want in terms of rent?” she asked.
“No rent. Just help with the utilities.”
“Where is it?”
“In the Heights.”
“Of course.”
That was the nice part of town. She’d have professors for neighbors. Maybe a lawyer or two.
She couldn’t deny it would make things easier. She just didn’t know how she felt about living with someone she might become romantically involved with, not that things showed signs of going that way. They were friendly, nothing more. Yet sometimes she found him looking at her in a strange, almost hungry way. She had more or less assumed that men weren’t interested in her because she was chubby, and now wondered if she’d sold herself short. As far as Timothy himself, she found him very dashing with his mop of dark hair. He reminded her a little of what Ted Hughes must have looked like, but then Ted Hughes had been an asshole. He was the reason Sylvia Plath killed herself, Sam was sure. She didn’t hold to all that history of depression stuff. When you found out your husband was cheating on you, and you were stuck with two young kids, the despair from that alone would have been enough to get your head in the oven.
Women Within Page 25
