Ophelia makes her way through the stacks of flowerpots, hoes and rakes, and Annie is right behind. When Ophelia lifts the tarp, Annie is surprised. She’d pictured a shiny bright bicycle, one bursting with memories, but this, like so many of Ophelia’s treasures, is old. It is a thing past its prime, rusted in any number of spots and with a front wheel that is crumpled and bent.
“This isn’t what I pictured,” Annie says. There is a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
Ophelia laughs. “It’s not the outside appearance of a thing that makes it precious, it’s what’s on the inside.”
Oddly enough Annie understands that she is referring not only to the bicycle but to all of life. The buds of a dandelion brewed into tea, the words written inside the Bible and most likely the soul of a person. Annie returns the smile.
“Would you mind if I touch it?” she asks.
“Of course not,” Ophelia answers. She steps aside and makes way for Annie to move closer to the bicycle.
Annie wants to feel what Ophelia feels. She wants to experience the memories, but when she touches the bicycle there is only the grit of rust beneath her fingers. She moves her hand across the fender and then grips the handlebars. At that moment she first senses it: the laughter of a young boy.
The shock causes her to pull back and gasp. “Oh!”
“You felt it, didn’t you?” Ophelia asks.
Annie gives a nod that is barely perceptible. “I think so.”
“Try again.”
For a second time Annie wraps her fingers around the handlebars. This time there is nothing. She hears nothing, feels nothing. Only the pitted surface of rusty chrome is beneath her fingers, and it is a disappointment. She remains there for several minutes, moving her fingers a bit to the left, then a bit to the right, but nothing happens.
Ophelia sees the disappointment in the girl’s face.
“Memories happen as they will,” she says. “It doesn’t mean they won’t be back. It just means they need time to grow on you.”
That afternoon Annie is full of questions. She wants to know everything.
Ophelia has knowledge of bits and pieces, not enough to string together into a story. The lad is a child with many secrets. He has a dog and a shotgun hidden beneath his bed.
“There is also a woman,” she says. “He calls her grandma, but his parents…” Her words trail off.
“What about his parents?” Annie asks. There is subtle urgency in her words.
“They’re not there,” Ophelia replies. “They’re gone.”
“Gone as in dead?”
“I don’t know,” Ophelia answers sorrowfully. “Something happened, but it’s a memory I can’t see.” Although she says nothing more, she knows that like most people this boy keeps his ugliest memories buried deep.
Annie continues to prod, but her questions go without answers. Ophelia has told all she knows.
Before the week ends, Annie goes back to the shed three times. She wraps her fingers around the handlebars the same way she did the first time, but there is nothing. She even sits on the seat and tries to imagine herself as the boy; she wants to know why his parents aren’t there and where he is going. Although she cannot say why, Annie now feels a need to know this boy.
Her doubts about a memory attaching itself to an inanimate object and waiting for the right soul have begun to waver. While she cannot say it is so, neither can she say it is not.
The Loft
On Sunday morning Annie packs her things and gets ready to leave. She rinses the muddy soles of her Nikes but does not pack them. Instead she tucks them into a corner of the closet. They will be there when she returns.
Although she has been here for just eight days, she has developed a fondness for Ophelia and her strange little world of dandelion tea and hand-me-down memories. The rusty bicycle is foremost in Annie’s mind; she hopes to hear the sound of the boy’s laughter again. For five days she has told herself that catching hold of someone else’s memories is an impossibility, but the sound of his laughter remains in her head—a single memory canceling out all the rationales of logic.
They sit across from one another at the breakfast table when Annie suggests she will come back next weekend or the weekend following.
“If you don’t have the rooms booked,” she adds.
Ophelia assures Annie the room will be available. “I seldom have visitors for both rooms.”
“Then why sleep in the upstairs loft?” Annie asks. “Wouldn’t it be easier on your leg to use one of the downstairs rooms?”
“I suppose it would be,” Ophelia answers, but her words carry no promise of change.
Annie reasons it is the thought of losing the income from the second room that worries Ophelia.
“If you have more than one visitor, you could have the second person use the loft,” she suggests.
“Oh, I could never let a stranger sleep in the loft,” Ophelia replies. “That’s where my memories are.”
Annie takes this to mean the collection of items Ophelia calls her treasures, the objects from which she gleans the long-forgotten memories of other people.
“You could bring your things downstairs,” she suggests. “I’ll help you move them.”
Ophelia laughs. It is a warm sound that seems to smooth the lines crisscrossing her face. “You can’t move the memory of Edward. He’s up there with me.”
The old woman gives a sigh that rumbles through her like the wind of an oncoming storm. Annie knows more of the story is yet to be told, and so she sits and waits.
“Edward was the love of my life,” Ophelia says, and then she hesitates for several seconds. It is as if she is calling images to mind as she absently picks at a loose thread on her apron.
When the thought comes she looks up and says, “I know other people claim this husband or that husband was their one true love, but after a few years they meet someone else and marry again. Not me. After the tragedy, I never gave a sideways glance at another man. I knew there was no one else like Edward, so I had to be happy living with what was left of him.”
“He sounds like a very special person,” Annie says.
“Oh, he was. One in a million.” As Ophelia tells of the way they fit together in one another’s arms, her eyes turn from steely grey to the violet hue of her younger years.
“Edward had a sensitive soul,” she says. “He could see straight into my heart.”
She continues, telling of how when they first came to the house they’d take a blanket and lie in the yard looking up at the stars and talk about the plans they had.
“That first summer was absolutely perfect,” she says. “I had Edward, this beautiful house and enough dreams to last a lifetime.”
As Ophelia speaks it appears she is looking at Annie, but she is not. She sees a different time, a time when Edward sat in that same chair. A time when she believed things would always be as they were. It is as if she is breaking free of a reverie when she says with a sigh, “Oh, how I hated to see that summer come to an end.”
Although Ophelia does not tell this part, that year she grew melancholy when frost settled on the ground and they could no longer lie together counting the stars in the sky.
Seeing his wife’s sadness troubled Edward’s heart, and he decided to give her a gift that would replace what she was missing. For weeks on end he spent every spare moment in the attic. Ophelia heard him up there sawing sheets of plywood and hammering away, but when she asked what he was doing he’d simply answer that he was working on a surprise. At times she’d tease him with guesses at to what it might be.
“A swing for the back porch?” she’d say. “A hope chest? A picnic table?”
Each time Edward would laugh and say only that it was a surprise.
Back then the loft was simply an attic, a place with bare rafters that framed the house and held up the roof. The only way to get up there was a folding staircase that disappeared into the ceiling when it was not being used. A few sheets of plywood
surrounded the staircase and formed a small square of flooring. But if you wanted to go from one side of the attic to the other, you’d have to make your way across the two-by-fours. One wrong step and you’d come crashing through the ceiling.
Ophelia smiles; she can still see the pride in Edward’s face that Christmas morning.
“We’d used all our money to buy the house, so that year we agreed not to buy Christmas presents.”
She chuckles and her voice takes on the sound of happiness. “I made Edward a scarf, but I was just learning to knit so it ended up wide on one end and narrow on the other. I apologized for it being such a lumpy thing, but Edward claimed it was the nicest scarf he’d ever owned. He wore it to work all that winter.”
As she listens, Annie’s thoughts flash back to last Christmas when she and Michael were together. For months she’d saved to buy him that gold watch. He’d smiled and said it was nice, but three days later he took it back to the store and exchanged it for a stainless steel diver’s watch that was waterproof. His gift to her had been a pair of diamond earrings with stones that probably cost twice the ring she was hoping for.
“Did Edward give you a gift that year?” Annie asks.
“Oh, yes, indeed.” Ophelia nods. “While I was in the parlor knitting, he was working upstairs in the attic. At times all that sawing and hammering was so loud I thought the house would come down. For almost two months Edward wouldn’t say a word about what he was doing. Then on Christmas morning he brought me up there to see my gift. He’d put down a brand new edge-to-edge floor, whitewashed the walls and built a platform bed smack in the middle of the room. But best of all was this great big glass window in the roof. It was right over the bed.”
Ophelia looks down at her hands and smiles as if she is seeing the memory. “Edward knew how much I missed lying out there and listening to him talk about the stars and what we’d do with our life, so he made a place where we could keep right on doing it all winter long.”
Annie sighs. “How wonderful.” She is remembering the diamond earrings, and they are a poor comparison to the skylight Ophelia has described.
“I’d love to see the loft,” she says.
The thought of sharing her greatest treasure pleases Ophelia. She rises from her chair and motions for Annie to follow.
Ophelia leads the way up the staircase. Although she is slow, it somehow seems more fitting that she crosses the threshold first. Annie follows two stair treads behind. Anxious as she is to see the room, a tiny prickle of fear tugs at her heels and warns that she is about to step into the memories of another person.
If it is true that good memories can reveal themselves to someone else, she knows this is the time and place where it will happen.
When they step into the room it is different than Annie expects. Simpler perhaps, but with a warmth she can feel. Sunlight streams through the glass skylight and lights the room. The bed is covered in a patchwork quilt, and a rag doll rests against the single pillow. Like the quilt, the doll looks aged.
Annie points to it. “Is she one of your treasures?”
The smile that lights Ophelia’s face is answer enough, but still she nods. “Jubilee’s mama made that doll for her.”
Annie is surprised. This is the first time a memory has been given such a definite name and an explanation. “How is it you know so much about this treasure?”
“The doll belonged to a very young girl. It’s easier to gather the thoughts of a child, because they haven’t yet learned to hide things.”
“So you have good and bad memories from this doll?”
The bright sun moves behind a cloud, and a shadow as dark as coal dust falls across Ophelia’s face. She is no longer smiling.
“Yes,” she says. “There are a number of Jubilee’s tears inside the doll.”
Annie wants to know more, but to ask seems invasive.
When thoughts such as these come they weigh heavily on Ophelia. Years ago she was stronger and could carry the sadness on her back without bending beneath it. Now it is far more difficult.
“That’s enough for today,” she says and starts toward the staircase.
Annie follows her, but as she is about to leave the room she turns and looks back. For one fleeting second she sees them lying on the bed: a young woman and man. The woman is nestled in the crook of his arm, and her face glows with happiness. Annie knows she has chanced upon a memory that belongs to Ophelia.
They return to the kitchen, and Ophelia pours the last of the tea into their cups. It is nearing noon and Annie has six hours of driving ahead of her, but she doesn’t rush.
“Why don’t we have lunch on the porch before I leave?” she suggests.
Ophelia smiles, and the sadness she has carried down the stairs seems to fade.
“We have leftover roast chicken,” she says, “and endive and tomatoes.”
It is after four when Annie finally climbs back into her car and starts for home. She has a long drive and much to think about.
Annie
It’s the strangest thing, but listening to Ophelia talk about Edward as she did has made me start missing Michael all over again. I know at the end things got pretty disagreeable, but in the beginning it was good…maybe even as good as what Ophelia and Edward had.
I don’t think for one minute Michael would ever build me a room just so I could look at stars, but back then he did bring me flowers most every Friday. When he passed by the grocer on Third Street he’d stop and buy one of those little bouquets from the outside stand. He’d come in with the flowers behind his back and this big old smile on his face. “Guess what I’ve got for you,” he’d say.
I always knew it was flowers, but we’d make a game of it. I’d guess: a book, a pair of socks or a box of candy. He’d wait until I made two or three wrong guesses, then pull the flowers from behind his back. When he did I’d squeal, “Lilies! My favorite!” No matter what bouquet he had, I’d say it was my favorite. Those were good times, not just because of the flowers, but because we had fun being together.
On Saturday night we’d usually go out to dinner. More often than not we went to Luigi’s, a little Italian restaurant where you brought your own bottle of wine. It was just a six-dollar bottle of wine and two plates of spaghetti, but I’d sit there thinking I was the luckiest girl in the world.
Luigi never rushed us. Every so often he’d come by with some special little offering—a cappuccino, a tiny plate of chocolates or mints—and give us this all-knowing grin. “Is good when young peoples is in love,” he’d say.
After Michael got the promotion we started going to fancier places, places with a dining room captain and more silverware than you could ever use. But it was never the same as Luigi’s.
A few months back I got to thinking about Luigi’s and went there figuring I’d stop in and say hello, but the restaurant was gone. It’s now a Chinese nail salon. I asked the girl at the desk if she knew where Luigi had gone, but she just shrugged and said she “no understand English so good”.
When I think of all the good times we had, I’m kind of sorry I kept at Michael about getting married. Maybe if I hadn’t done that we’d still be together.
I wonder if Ophelia and Edward ever argued about things like that. Probably not, but I sure would love to know.
Twins, Fins & Mergers
When Annie arrives home there are eight messages on the answering machine. Four are from Peter Axelrod, her boss at Quality Life. Two are from her friend, Sophie. One is a recorded sales pitch from an investment company, and the last is from Michael.
“Where are you?” he asks, that all-too-familiar tone of impatience thick in his voice. “Call me, I’ve got something to ask you.” The message ends with a click. There is nothing more; no explanation of what he wants to ask.
For a brief moment Annie allows herself to think it might be the question she waited years to hear, but recalling the tone of his words she knows such a thought is foolish. His voice wasn’t the sound of a suitor
looking to propose; it was that of a man wanting to know if his suit is back from the cleaners. Annoyed. Impatient.
Still warmed by the afterglow of her visit with Ophelia, Annie is in no mood for another confrontational discussion and clicks past the message. Instead of returning Michael’s call, she telephones Sophie.
Before the second ring, Sophie picks up the receiver. She has caller ID so she knows it is Annie.
“Where have you been?” she asks.
It strikes Annie odd that she often goes for a week or more without a telephone call from anyone, and now both Sophie and Michael have asked where she’s been.
“I was only gone for a week,” she says. Her words have the sound of an apology.
“You should let somebody know when you’re going away,” Sophie replies. The somebody she refers to is herself. “I called your office and they said you were out for the week. It struck me strange that you’d go away without saying a word, so I asked the receptionist if she was sure it was Annie Cross she was talking about.”
Annie laughs. “I’m the only Annie there.”
“Yes, but to leave without telling me…”
“When I left I thought I’d be back on Monday, but as it turned out I was having such a good time I decided to stay the week.”
“Did you go to Atlantic City without me?” Sophie asks accusingly.
“No, Burnsville. It’s a small town just past Richmond.”
When Sophie asks what is in Burnsville, Annie tells of her visit with Ophelia. After she tells of her visit with Ophelia, she says, “Imagine a potpourri that gives off the fragrance of whatever you like.”
“Maybe that’s what I need,” Sophie answers, “because all I’m smelling around here is dirty diapers.” From there she launches into a lengthy story of what a terrible week it has been. The twins, she claims, have been almost unbearable.
Memory House: Memory House Collection (Memory House Series Book 1) Page 4
