Agnes

by Jaime Maddox

  During her collegiate years, she found the trips “home” very difficult. New York offered her nightlife and culture and sports, and of course women, and Mount Pocono just couldn’t compete. She continued her sexual explorations at Queens College, finding—as she and Jeannie had expected—quite a few lesbians in the Big Apple. Though she dated extensively, she never contemplated bringing any of her sexual partners home to meet her grandmother. She was left choosing which way to spend her holidays, and the choice of a beautiful young woman often won out over the aging one who had raised her.

  She did miss her grandmother, though, and she did come home. And Arthur drove her crazy. He was miserly and obsessively neat, and how he and Nellie could have been related puzzled Sandy. Nellie didn’t seem to mind him, though, so Sandy tried her best to tolerate the man.

  Using money from the Parker trust, Sandy supported herself in New York. Had she understood the details of the trust—which became available to her in small allotments when she reached her eighteenth birthday—Sandy and Jeannie would have had no worries. The trust covered her tuition and gave her plenty of spending money. It would have been enough to support them both for the duration of their college days. Hell, it would have supported them for the rest of their lives.

  Sandy used a sum of her money for the purchase of a pop-up camper, which she permanently installed on her land. It had no heat, so served its purpose only from April to October, but during those months Sandy enjoyed the Poconos. She could spend an entire day with her grandmother, then escape to the camper for a bit of quiet. She built fires and stargazed and read by the light of a kerosene lamp. When the winter came, she worked harder and longer on Wall Street and felt justified in avoiding the mountains, but she still came home for Christmas. For those few days, Arthur seemed to be more cheerful and Sandy could tolerate him a little more easily. Spring followed winter and the snow eventually melted and once again it became warm enough to visit the camper.

  The mid-1980s were a busy time for Sandy. She had opened her own investment firm and routinely spent seventy-hour workweeks, and still found time to camp on her Pocono property. Then one day she met Diane and her life changed. Their relationship quickly became serious and she found herself, for the second time in her life, in love. Within months of their first date, Diane had moved into Sandy’s Greenwich Village apartment.

  Diane was the first woman she brought home to meet her grandmother, and after taking one look at the accommodations she promptly informed Sandy that she needed to build a house. Literally.

  Diane’s mind was of the analytical type, stimulated by equations and spatial relationships, and she loved building things. She wanted to build Sandy a house, and she did. Sandy—who loved working with her hands and had all the skills to build the house herself—helped on weekends, but during the week, Diane stayed in the Poconos and built. With the help of some of Arthur’s strong grandsons, all week long Diane supervised the construction. Her day began at dawn and she worked all day beside her crew of teenage boys, and at night she rested her head on a pillow at Arthur’s house.

  Both Nellie and Arthur loved Diane, and if they ever questioned the nature of her relationship with Sandy, they didn’t speak of it.

  They began digging a foundation at this time of year, just before Memorial Day, when Diane’s semester at Columbia concluded. By Labor Day, Sandy and Diane spent their first night in their cabin. During the twenty-three years they had been together, they had spent just about every holiday, and most summers, in the peace and quiet of the cabin in the mountains.

  Sandy reached the cabin via a dirt and gravel road snaking through the forest, with Pat not far behind. A few women had been guests at Sandy’s apartment since Diane’s death, but Pat was the first to visit the cabin, a detail that hadn’t escaped Angie’s attention. Teasing her mom—just a little—she’d told her it was about time.

  Pat settled in while Sandy fixed drinks. She very seldom drank alone, and she spent a good deal of time alone, so she seldom drank. With Pat, the cocktails went down easily. Pouring Ketel One and tonic into a glass pitcher, Sandy perfected the drink with a whole lime, sectioned. She took two short glasses of ice and waited for Pat on the porch swing. It was only three in the afternoon, but Sandy figured, as the saying goes, it truly was five o’clock somewhere.

  Pat joined her on the porch. Looking incredibly sexy in faded jeans and a Mets tank top, with no socks or shoes, she sat beside Sandy and raised a glass. “Cheers.” The glasses clinked in midair.

  It had been a sad and lonely few weeks for Sandy here, watching her grandmother fade and die, going through the funeral ritual, and finally sorting through her personal effects. She was blown away by her visit to the Bennetts’ gravesite, where the love of her life was hidden in an unmarked grave. She missed Nellie. She missed Jeannie. She missed Diane. But they were all dead, and Sandy knew it was okay for her to move on, again. For this next segment in the journey of life, perhaps Pat would walk beside her. Smiling at the handsome woman who had put a twinkle back in her eye, she raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Big Apple

  Sandy had read that the latest technological innovations would soon enable cars to drive themselves. She suspected her car already could, for she often found herself arriving at one home or the other without remembering the details of the drive. As she pulled into her parking space near her apartment on Washington Square, she wondered if this was a sign of early senility.

  The commute had been a part of her agenda for nearly thirty years, since she and Diane had built their cabin and spent huge blocks of time in the Poconos. During the sweltering days of summer, Diane never inhaled a breath of heavy New York air. Instead, at the close of school in May they headed for the mountains. Sandy shortened her workweek and drove westward on Thursday evening, making the return trip every Monday morning.

  In the early mornings before September 11, Sandy could easily make the trip back to Greenwich Village in ninety minutes. The road was dark at five a.m., and she hardly saw another set of headlights until she approached Stroudsburg. As she progressed east on Interstate 80, the volume of traffic exploded, with commuters from North Jersey adding to the mix. As long as she was out of Mount Pocono by five, though, her commute was tolerable.

  Fast-forward a decade and the interstate in New Jersey had become a parking lot. The terrorists had put fear into the hearts of many, and hoping that the sprawling Pocono Mountains would be a less likely target, thousands moved west. New developments popped up everywhere, businesses flourished, schools were built, and the roads were a mess. No one thought of adding an extra lane to accommodate traffic, and these days if Sandy wanted to be in New York for an eight o’clock appointment she needed to see Mount Pocono in her rearview mirror by four.

  It was nearly a month since she’d received the call from Nellie and with an ever-growing sense of panic left her apartment and headed for the Poconos. Nellie had been coughing for a few days, but as was typical she didn’t complain and even minimized her symptoms when Sandy pressed for details. On that morning, though, as they talked, Sandy could hear her grandmother’s breathing. Pausing after just a few words, she’d inhale audibly before she could speak again. As soon as the call ended, Sandy threw her essentials into a bag and, since the traffic was heading her way, was in Mount Pocono an hour and a half later. From that point Nellie’s health rapidly declined, and she never recovered from the pneumonia that had invaded her lungs.

  Always prone to order and organization, Sandy had left the apartment in an impeccable state. Opening the front door, though, she inhaled the smell of neglect, part dust and unidentified odor. Episodic visits by Angie for the purpose of emptying the trash and bringing in the mail had done little to combat the dreary conditions. The rhythmic beeping of her security system warned her to deactivate the alarm before a piercing siren sounded, shattering neighborhood windows. She keyed in her code and flipped the light switch.

  Making her way throug
h the spacious loft, she opened blinds and windows, allowing the sunshine and fresh air to wash out the decay. The building was nearly a hundred years old, but the only thing left of the original construction was the exterior. It had been in dilapidated condition when she made the purchase and had to gut it and completely start over. The result was much more spacious apartments and a modern look that she thought suited the cosmopolitan city she called home. With the radio on for company, she sorted the mail and filed 90 percent of it directly into the trash. She had no messages on her voice mail and questioned again the utility of a home phone. Everyone called her cell phone if they needed to reach her, and more and more lately she’d been texting.

  It was so simple to contact her friends and family en masse. Communication that once took hours could be completed in seconds. If she needed a date for the theater, she sent a text to her group of friends and, within minutes, she could choose whatever companion she wanted. She could arrange a lunch date similarly. Her text function had been very helpful in keeping those who cared abreast of her grandmother’s condition during her final days.

  As she held the cordless handset to her ear, she marveled at the slim form of her current smart phone, and at how far phones had evolved. Remembering her grandmother’s kitchen on Canal Street, she could still see Jeannie across the yard, the old rotary phone cord stretched to the limit as she stood at the window waving to Sandy in the house next door while they talked.

  What had they talked about? Conversations were hard to remember after all these years, but Sandy knew the answer to her question. Everything. She rarely if ever voiced her opinion to her grandparents, but with Jeannie she miraculously overcame that hesitation. They had talked and debated and argued about everything. They agreed on most, but embraced even the topics that caused them dissent, for the debates were stimulating, and on those occasions when they truly became angry with each other, the making up was fabulous.

  Sandy surveyed the room as she wiped down the kitchen countertops and table. Needing a change, she had updated the kitchen a few months after Diane’s death and was pleased with the stainless-steel appliances and the sleek look they gave the kitchen. She featured the rustic and traditional look at the log cabin, but here in the city she preferred sleek and sophisticated. With the combination of marble and glass complementing the appliances, and walls painted a bright purple, she had achieved the look she’d sought.

  An hour later, after she’d wiped the dust clean and banished the dead food to the trash, she poured a Stewart’s Crème Soda, propped her feet up on the coffee table, and thought of what she might do next. The sheets tumbling in the dryer were now competing with the radio for her attention, but otherwise Sandy was alone with her thoughts.

  A week had passed since she’d buried her grandmother, and this was the first significant alone time she’d had. Pat hadn’t left until late on Labor Day. Her friends Colleen and Jody made their appearance that day, a break from their journey from Maine to their home in Rehoboth Beach. When they’d left in their motor home that morning, Sandy was just behind them.

  Her apartment was much like her, she thought as she looked around. Quiet and uncomplicated, with a calm and comforting color scheme throughout, spiced up here and there by an extravagant piece of artwork. Her life was orderly and predictable, her calendar dominated these days by charitable events and theatrical productions, and of course by her family obligations. For the past few years family obligations had mostly meant caring for the people she loved—first Diane, and then Nellie. Now she hoped to spend more time with Leo.

  Would that be enough for her? She had worked hard during her youth, and she didn’t need to anymore. The Parker Trust had secured her fortune, and all the work she did over the years had helped her amass considerable wealth. In those days, managing money had been thrilling to her, but now the thought of entering that arena for more bullfighting held no appeal. She needed to find a new passion to occupy her time.

  A small Picasso adorned the wall above the fireplace, the museum lighting drawing the eye immediately to the canvas that was the focal point of the room. She looked lovingly at it before closing her eyes. It had been a gift, really. Although she had paid for it, bought it from a man who was dying from AIDS, the check she’d written him was for a fraction of the painting’s value. She had helped him, though, in setting up a trust and orchestrating the disposition of his assets that would fund it, keeping his money from the hands of greedy relatives who had turned their backs on him but would have been all too eager to embrace his considerable estate. Sandy helped make sure they’d have no claim to the tens of millions of dollars he’d made in the fashion industry.

  A glance at the Picasso naturally caused her to glance at the only other notable piece of art she owned—the Remington bronze. Spotting the piece at a gallery fund-raiser, she’d thought the masculine statue of a cowboy on his horse would be perfect for the lobby of her investment office. The problem was, at the time she didn’t have an office. She’d bid on the statue and was thrilled to win it, thinking as she brought it home of the piece her grandfather had owned, inherited from his father. And then a few years later, when she finally hung her own shingle in the financial district, the bronze stood proud and welcoming to all the clients who trusted her with their money.

  After officially retiring and selling her firm, she had brought the Marlboro Man home with her. He didn’t necessarily fit into the décor of the apartment, but he belonged in her life.

  This expansive room was cozy and comfortable, with warm colors and conversational seating, the television off to the side and not dominating the room, but accessible for popcorn and a movie. Sitting here, where she could see her art—the two masterpieces and dozens of equally beautiful pieces by lesser-known artists—she had always felt at peace. Now, though, she was restless.

  Today is the first day of the rest of your life, she told herself. How do you want to spend it? It was just after noon, leaving only eleven plus hours to this day. How many days were left in this life? She could figure out how to pass the eleven hours, but how was she going to pass the days?

  Working those crazy hours all those years ago, making her fortune, she didn’t dream of a future. She’d focused solely on the plan she’d laid out as a teen—college, a career on Wall Street—and never dreamed beyond that. Had Jeannie lived, Sandy would have shared more dreams with her, but without her, life was quite empty. It was exciting, and rewarding, and she was wildly successful, but at the end of the day, her bed was empty. None of her sexual partners ever had come home with her because she never extended the invitation, and she never extended the invitation because no one had interested her.

  Feeling restless in her life and frightened by the number of her friends and neighbors who were succumbing to AIDS, she’d found a purpose at an HIV clinic. They offered what little information there was and helped arrange for medical care and social services for all of those men—and a few women—who were heading to what was at that time the inevitable conclusion of the disease.

  There, while doing something that gave her more sense of purpose than she’d had since Agnes, she met a young professor of mathematics who had just been granted tenure at Columbia University. Diane was raised on a farm in the Midwest, and she understood hard work. Her energy at the clinic was tireless, and Sandy secretly watched her during her daily shifts, admiring her spirit and the gentle kindness with which Diane cared for their clients. She treated everyone with equal respect—from the successful gay men who had been leaders in the arts and business of the Village to the drug addicts who stole for their next meal. They were all suffering human beings who needed her kindness and not her judgment.

  It took time to collect her courage, but a few weeks after Sandy started volunteering, she finally spoke to Diane, just a few cheerful words. Then they met on the street, and they both stopped, smiling in recognition. A brief conversation followed, which led to more conversation when they again met at the clinic. They shared enough common thre
ads to cause Sandy to suddenly reevaluate her life. She wanted someone to share her evenings, and her mornings, too. She wanted someone to think about during a boring conference, someone whose image could bring a secret smile to her face.

  She asked Diane to dinner, and before long, they were sharing breakfast as well. Shortly thereafter, Diane moved into Sandy’s Greenwich Village apartment. Sandy had been wildly successful in the stock market and used the profits to invest in an apartment complex, where she had taken over the top floor. After the move, they continued their good work taking care of the patients with AIDS.

  On a day that changed their lives, a young woman came into the clinic with her three-year-old daughter in tow. Angela was a cheerful break from the sometimes-gloomy mood that struck when a new patient was diagnosed or an old one died. After months of visits to the clinic and no good news from her doctors, Maria asked Diane and Sandy to care for her daughter.

  They hadn’t been together long enough to have weathered any significant storms, and raising children together wasn’t one of the conversations they’d had. The only women they knew with kids were those that had previously been married before coming to their senses. Yet Sandy and Diane didn’t have to debate, for they both adored the little girl who they knew would soon be an orphan in foster care. Using some favors from people in high places, they were able to adopt Angie before her mother had even passed away.

  Their love helped her through that awful time, and it didn’t take long for her to become the love of their lives. Angie adjusted quite well from one realm to the other. Apparently three short years with a heroin addict had prepared her for the chaotic schedule of two career women. Even so, they rearranged their lives to care for Angie. Diane had flexibility in her schedule and was home often; still, Angie spent more time in the math department at Columbia than some of the students. Sandy was able to arrange meetings around Diane’s agenda, and she paid a small fortune for a primitive model VCR when she saw one playing a children’s video. Angie’s two moms put that electronic babysitter to good use when they absolutely had to get some work done.