Late in the afternoon she moves to the chrome of the pedals. Twice she hears an automobile pull into the far end of the drive, and minutes later the jangle of the cowbell sounds at the door of the apothecary.
Annie knows Ophelia is there and will offer some special magic for whatever the person needs. She wishes there was a potion to find the boy’s voice, but for that there is none. There is only the magic of one soul reaching out to another.
When she finally completes the fenders Annie’s fingers are cramped and the skin on her hands covered with grime. Worse yet, it has grown too dark to continue working. There is only a small bit of dusky pink left in the sky, and she still has the wheels to do.
Reluctantly she returns the bicycle to the shed. As she carefully tucks the blue tarp into place, she says, “Goodnight, Allen. I’ll be back in the morning.” It is as if she is talking to the boy himself.
The Gypsy’s Prediction
When Annie left Philadelphia she planned to seek Ophelia’s advice on the situation at work, but a full day has passed and she has yet to mention it. When they sit down to supper she has cleaned the grime from her hands but has not rid her mind of thoughts about the boy.
Ophelia has made a German dish of noodles and pork. This, she claims, was Edward’s favorite. Annie understands why; the dish is thick with cream and settles in her stomach comfortably.
As they eat Ophelia speaks of Edward, not as if he is dead but simply gone—gone in the way of someone who is fetching a newspaper and will be back any moment. When she tells of how he could at times eat two or possibly three helpings of this favorite dish, her voice is soft and round.
Looking wistfully at the large serving bowl on the table she says, “Knowing how much Edward liked my pork noodles, I’d make three times this much and it would be gone in a day or two.”
She looks back at the memory no one else can see and laughs even though it would appear there is nothing to laugh at. “He used to take a big bowl of it over to Widow Cassidy and thought I didn’t know. How could I not know when Ida Cassidy washed the bowl and returned it to me every time?”
She chuckles again. “I’m pretty certain Edward knew it wasn’t really a secret, but we both had a lot of fun pretending it was.”
Annie could sit forever and listen to the stories of Ophelia’s life with Edward. There is warmth in them, magic almost, and one story inevitably leads to another. As she listens Annie thinks back on her own life with Michael, and there are few if any such stories. They had good times and bad times but no single time that jumps out and says “This is a moment you’ll remember for the rest of your life”.
As Annie is thinking, Ophelia moves to another story. This one is about the staircase leading to the loft.
“It took Edward three months to finish it,” she says. “Before we had the staircase I had to pull down those rickety attic steps to get up there.” She hesitates a moment then with a sad smile adds, “When I told Edward I didn’t feel safe going up and down those wobbly steps, he started building that staircase the very same week.”
“He certainly took good care of you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.” Ophelia gives a deep sigh; it is heavy with the weight of her memories. “After he was gone, I used to wish I’d died right alongside of him. Take me too, Lord, that’s what I used to pray. Without my Edward life just didn’t seem to be worth living.”
Annie is like a sponge, soaking up every word. She leans in, transfixed on the calm grey of Ophelia’s eyes. In them there is no look of pain; there is only a peaceful acceptance. A contentment Annie has seldom seen in her own eyes.
“How’d you get past it?” she asks.
“One day at a time,” Ophelia answers. “At first I’d stay in bed for as long as I could stand it; then when my bones ached from lying there, I’d get up and go fix myself a bowl of cereal or a can of soup.”
Annie can almost see the memories Ophelia speaks of, but she’s uncertain if it is her power growing stronger or the old woman’s way of weaving magical threads through the memories.
Ophelia continues her story with the tale of a gypsy dressed in red, gold and silver, a woman who for fifty cents looked at the palm of her hand and told what her future would be.
“It had been a wonderful day at the fair, and I was flushed with excitement,” Ophelia says, “so naturally I expected her to tell me we were going to live happily ever after and have a flock of adorable babies. But that’s not what happened.”
The expression on Ophelia’s face grows solemn as she describes how the gypsy predicted she would live a long life but death would come and bring a terrible loneliness.
“I was eager enough to believe the good things,” Ophelia explains. “But when it came to hearing about such loneliness, I told the woman she must’ve made a mistake. No mistake, she said, and pointed to a tiny crease across my palm. That, she swore, was a sure-fire indicator.”
Ophelia tries to force a laugh, but it is a sad shallow sound. “I told Edward such a prediction was poppycock and I didn’t believe a word of it. I tried to convince myself as well, but it was too late. The fear of what she’d said was like a worm eating at the inside of me. For months I tried to erase that line from my hand. I used a pumice stone and rubbed it across the palm of my hand until it was almost raw, then I took to massaging it with cocoa butter. Nothing worked.”
Ophelia extends her hand and points to the line. “See? It’s still there.”
Annie looks at her own palm and compares the two. “Everybody has that line. See, here’s mine.”
Ophelia lowers her head and studies the palm Annie holds up. “Yours is different.” She points to a spot between the thumb and forefinger. “See, my line points down; yours points up.”
Annie looks again and sees that what Ophelia has said is true. “So you knew Edward was going to die?”
“Not at all,” Ophelia answers. “I thought it was Mama the gypsy was talking about. After Daddy died Mama and me got to be real close. We didn’t live close but we’d send letters most every day. I was all she had left. For months on end she’d write and tell me how poorly she was feeling. Every time I got one of those letters I’d think back on what the gypsy said and worry myself to death thinking about Mama. Finally I told Edward I’ve simply got to go visit her.”
There is a long pause before Ophelia tells of how she bought a train ticket and went off to visit her mama in Atlanta. “I left on a Wednesday and Edward promised he’d be waiting at the train station when I got back on Sunday.”
She stops speaking, pulls a hankie from her pocket and dabs at her eyes. Several minutes pass before she continues. Wiping back the tears, Ophelia tells how she arrived at the train station and Edward was nowhere to be seen.
“I was in a panic,” she says. “I waited an hour and then took a taxi cab home. I didn’t care that it cost seventeen dollars, the only thing I could think about was Edward. I told the taxi driver to hurry, but the ride home seemed to take forever. The whole while I kept praying Edward had just mixed up the days and forgotten to meet me.”
That day comes back and Ophelia can envision it. Her chin begins to quiver, and she raises a hand to her face as if to stop the flow of tears. It is useless.
“After all these years,” she says through a sob, “I thought I could speak of that day and it wouldn’t be so painful.”
Annie pushes back her chair and comes around to Ophelia. She kneels beside her and wraps her in an embrace. “You don’t have to do this. I understand.”
For several minutes Ophelia allows the tears to fall; then slowly they come to a stop. There is great sorrow in her voice when she finally speaks.
“I’ve not told anyone the full story of what happened, but now it’s time.”
She continues, telling of how she arrived home to find Edward dead. As she speaks there are pauses between the thoughts; it is as if images of that day pass through her mind and she gathers the courage to go on.
“Although Edward neve
r told me of it, he apparently had a weak heart,” she explains. “The coroner said he’d most likely been dead for two days.”
Thinking she has heard the worst of it, Annie gives a sympathetic sigh. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” Ophelia’s voice is thick with the sound of regret. “Sorry I wasn’t here to save him. When I found Edward he was in the loft, lying on that bed he’d made and facing toward the window. His eyes were wide open. For years I kept wondering if he was looking at the stars and wishing I was there to save him.”
Before Annie can say anything, Ophelia pushes her chair back and stands. She scoops up the two dishes and carries them to the sink. Annie follows along with the teapot and butter dish. They stand with their backs to one another, Annie at the refrigerator, Ophelia at the sink, when Ophelia adds one last thought.
“Doctor Kelly said it was a massive heart attack that supposedly happened in a few seconds. He claims it wouldn’t have made any difference whether I was there or not.”
There is a thunk as Ophelia lowers the frying pan into the soapy water; then she adds, “No matter what Doctor Kelly says, I know it would’ve made a difference if I was there beside Edward.”
Ophelia
Speaking of Edward’s death brings back memories I thought were dead and buried. Those were terrible times; times so bad there’s not even a way of describing them. Although the smell of death was all over that loft, I called Doctor Kelly and told him to come quick because Edward had stopped breathing.
I suppose I was hoping that by some miracle they could breathe life back into him, but of course such a thing wasn’t possible. After I called the doctor, I went back to the loft and sat beside Edward. I kept thinking maybe there was something I could do for him. Maybe he’d wake up and ask for a glass of water or an aspirin. Now I can see how foolish such thoughts were, but back then I didn’t have the ability to think rational. When the person you love more than life itself is gone, your heart and mind are filled with sorrow and bitterness.
I blamed myself for not being here, and I blamed Edward for building that damned loft. No matter what anybody said, I knew if he wasn’t up there he would have called for help and he’d still be alive. For almost two years, I didn’t even step foot on the staircase. I left everything exactly as it was. The sheets crumpled and laying half on the floor, the imprint of Edward’s head still on the pillow and the lamp beside the bed still turned on. Eventually the bulb burned out and the loft was like a black hole that had swallowed up my reason for living.
Two years to the day it happened I was moping around the house and thinking of all I’d lost when I heard voices coming from upstairs. At first I thought it was a burglar or some vagrants who’d snuck in looking for a warm place to sleep. Not caring if I lived or died anyway, I grabbed the poker iron and started up the stairs. I pushed open the door, and there wasn’t a soul in the room. I looked in the far corners and behind the eaves, but nothing. Then clear as a bell I heard Edward’s voice.
“Opie,” he said, “it’s time to start living again.”
Opie is what he used to call me. Nobody but Edward ever used that name, so I knew for sure it was him. Anyway, I would’ve recognized his voice no matter where it came from.
At first it was scary, hearing a voice from out of nowhere, but then I started listening. With Edward’s help I began remembering all the good things that happened right there in that room. All the dreams we had and the plans we’d made. It was sad that we didn’t have time enough to do all those things, but I still had memories of the fun we’d had just planning. That’s more than some people ever get.
That same day I put a new bulb in the lamp, changed the sheets and plumped the pillows. It felt like I was getting rid of the death in the room and making a place for good memories to settle in. And in time that’s what happened.
For months I’d spend all afternoon sitting up there, waiting to hear Edward’s voice again. I never did hear it as clear as I did that day, but I could always sense he was there, still looking after me.
The following spring I moved all my things up to the loft and started renting out the downstairs bedrooms.
It was about a year or so later when I learned I could hold things in my hand and bring back memories of Edward; then I discovered he wasn’t the only one who’d left sweet memories behind.
The day I found the Bible that belonged to Livonia Lannigan, I knew there’d be more. Unlike people, memories don’t die. They latch onto something and wait for a new person to come along and claim them.
A Crooked Wheel
On Sunday morning Annie doesn’t take time to brew tea. As soon as daylight filters into the sky, she is back at work on the bicycle. With squares of aluminum folded into narrow strips she works her way around the front wheel, spoke by spoke. In certain spots the rust refuses to let go, and it takes three or sometimes four scrubbings before the shine comes through. The rust, when it finally does dissolve, doesn’t disappear. It turns to a thick black sludge that lodges beneath Annie’s nails and stains her skin. Twice she has brushed her hair back from her face and now has traces of black sludge streaked across her forehead.
When Ophelia wakes and finds Annie is already at work, she brews a pot of dandelion tea then fills a mug and carries it outside.
“I thought you could use this,” Ophelia says and offers Annie the mug.
“Could I ever,” Annie replies. She unfolds herself from the squat she is in, grabs a rag and wipes the grime from her hands. Allowing herself a short break, she stops working and sips the tea. With a proud smile she says, “I’m making progress, but it’s slow.”
They chat for a few minutes; then Ophelia turns back to the house. She is going in to prepare a brunch and will call for Annie when it is ready.
Today it is a simple meal, one that is served cold and carried to the side porch. Blueberry scones, chicken salad and sliced peaches. There is also tea, the porcelain pot covered with a quilted cozy to keep it warm.
The chill of an early spring morning is in the air, but when Annie comes in she is damp with perspiration. She rinses her face and scrubs the grime from her hands, then joins Ophelia on the porch. From where she sits Annie can see the bicycle. The handlebar gleams in the sunlight. The grips, once black, are now grey, and in one spot there is a hole worn clean though to the metal. New grips would cost only a few dollars, but replacement is unthinkable.
Biting into a scone Annie garbles, “The front wheel’s finished and it looks like new. Almost.” She pauses for a few sips of tea then says, “The only thing left to do is the back wheel. That and inflating the tires.”
In the hours she has spent scrubbing rust from the bicycle, Annie has come to call the boy by name. As she works she speaks to him—sometimes aloud, sometimes in a whisper that only her mind hears.
“Allen,” she says, “you’re gonna want this bike back when you see how great it looks.” It is as if she has known the lad since the day he was born.
Her plan is to do that—know the boy. Know everything about him, including how and when he came upon the bicycle. It was a special occasion, of that she is confident. A birthday maybe. Or a Christmas when he woke and found it shiny and new with a tag that read To Allen from Santa.
Annie is certain when she rides the bicycle as Allen would have ridden it she will unlock the memories stored inside. It is a strange obsession, one she cannot explain, but to her the boy is as real as anyone she has ever known. She has tried to imagine his face, but it escapes her. The image Annie sees is always from the back: Allen is on the bicycle leaning forward and pedaling hard. A brown dog runs alongside.
Only once has she heard his laughter, but when she is close to the bicycle she can sense him nearby. It feels as if she could turn and see him standing there. Whether this feeling comes from her preoccupation with thoughts of him or if in fact she is connecting with his memories is impossible to say. Annie knows that if such a power is to be had, hers is not yet fully developed.
It is late afternoon when she finally polishes off the last bit of rust on the back wheel. It takes another ten minutes to inflate the tires. Once that is done she steps back and admires her handiwork. The bicycle looks good, almost as good as it would have on the day Allen received it. The blue paint is cloudy in spots, dulled by time. It is something few people would notice, but Annie makes a mental note to bring a can of compounding wax with her next time.
As she stands there a cloud that has been hovering overhead moves on, and the bicycle is suddenly bathed in sunlight. Annie knows it is now time, and she feels a swell of excitement that needs to be shared. She walks to the edge of the screened porch and calls for Ophelia.
“I’m finished!” she hollers. “Come see how it looks.”
Ophelia is in the kitchen and hears the call. She is wiping her hands on a dishtowel when she steps onto the porch. “Oh my. It looks wonderful!”
Annie smiles. She is obviously pleased. “I’m going to take a quick shower, then take it for a ride. You wanna come?”
Ophelia chuckles. “We can’t both ride on one bicycle.”
“Sure we can,” Annie answers. “I’ll pedal and you can sit on the crossbar.”
Ophelia is a tiny bird-like woman, smaller even than a twelve-year-old child, but the thought of such a thing makes her laugh out loud.
“It’ll work,” Annie says, trying to sound convincing. “Back in high school I used to ride on the crossbar of my boyfriend’s bike.”
Ophelia laughs like she hasn’t laughed for years. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a high school girl.”
Memory House: Memory House Collection (Memory House Series Book 1) Page 8
