by L. B. Dunbar
At this level in the house while lying in bed, I had a perfect view out the window and into the back yard. It was so different from Chicago where I could only look at the bricks of the building next door from my bedroom window. There were no fences between the yards in this small town. Any division was natural – flowers, low bushes, a tree with a tire swing – and shared by anyone that bordered the property. Seeing the bushes dividing Nana’s yard from the neighbor’s behind her house, I noticed they were trimmed on top, but brown and spindly on the bottom. Someone else must have done the cutting, but the flower garden within Nana’s yard was a mess.
The browning grass looked cut in the back, but not very precisely. Who cut Nana’s grass became another question added to my list of concerns. But the biggest question of all became how was I going to leave Nana in two days? I had only planned a long weekend visit since that’s all I had time for. My editor was waiting. My apartment was waiting. Shaking wishful thoughts of a man waiting out of my head, I drowned out the memories of my last long relationship. His interest in other women had diminished my interest in him.
Sitting up against the maple-wood headboard, I pulled my knees to my chest and ran my fingers through chestnut colored hair. My own blue eyes stared back at me as I saw my reflection in the mirror over the old chest of drawers. My image was muted by the brown veins of age that crackled in the mirror. A crocheted doily rested on top of the dresser with antique framed photos of Rosie and me. Most of the pictures were images better forgotten – braces, glasses, bushy eyebrows, and frizzy, dull hair. Rosie had always been the cute one with blond hair and great skin, never needing to pluck her eyebrows and looking adorable in glasses.
There was a wooden, dust-covered box on the floor holding antique china dolls and teddy bears that Nana collected. A rocking chair was dressed in an old quilt covered in pink rose petals. The room was feminine and childlike, and it lent itself to fairy tales. I’d always liked fairy tales, preferring Beauty and the Beast over Cinderella. The strong willed girl saves the beast in the end, relieving him of all his secrets. Too bad life wasn’t like fairy tales, because I could use a fairy godmother like Cinderella’s at the moment. I needed help with Nana.
My suitcase sat in sharp contrast to the antiquated furnishings of the room. It was a reminder that I did not belong here in this town. Seeing the dirty line smudged on my white pants, hung neatly over a quilt holder, I recalled the little girl from yesterday at the radio repair shop. She’d looked like such a sad child compared to the laughing, awkward photos on the maple dresser. The little girl had grown pale in the face, reminding me of a ghost. Her flowered sundress had contrasted with the sudden fear in her eyes and she’d appeared older at her young age than the two silly girls spraying water at each other in a photo on the dresser.
But it was the face of the man in the shop, the one I presumed was her father that haunted my night. His eyes had pierced me with black hatred when I’d finally left their showroom, and I had no idea what I’d said or done to incite such a glare. The dark haired man, on the other hand, seemed friendly enough, almost trying to ignore the suddenly tense atmosphere inside his store. The Carter boys, Nana later explained, owned the shop and had been hellions at some point in their younger years. Tom Carter was the friendly, dark-haired one with a mischievous smile; Jess Carter was the sandy-blonde ponytail man with denim colored eyes.
Deciding I couldn’t stare at myself in the mirror all day, I knew I needed a plan. First things first: the garden. Unfortunately, I thought this would be more of a visit than a vacation when I had packed, and I had nothing to wear for yard work. I was refusing to wear one of Nana’s housecoats, so I asked her if she had any old t-shirts of Grandpa’s, and possibly a pair of his old pants. I held my breath, nervous that she would answer in a way that implied he was still alive, wearing his old clothes, but she didn’t and I let out a silent sigh of relief. She told me to look in the dresser drawers in my room to start.
When I pulled open the left side drawer of the dresser, I found it filled with old articles Nana had written. Neatly clipped and lying on top of each other, the articles stressed different means of etiquette for people throughout introduction, visitation, and separation. Nana was modern enough to believe a woman didn’t need a man to sustain her financially, but she did believe in certain traditions between a man and a woman. She still believed that a man should always make the first move in a relationship and a woman should play hard to get. Nana also believed in men opening doors, escorting a woman by her arm, and offering women flowers. Her advice column highlighted examples of this classic code of etiquette. I wasn’t sure I believed in any of it. Having paid for more bad dinners, opened my own doors, and bought myself flowers, I wasn’t sure I’d know how to respond to a gentleman if I saw one.
Another drawer was filled with more photos. Rosie’s toothless grin. My extra large sunglasses. Rosie’s boyish haircut. My horrible perm. Years of smiles and moments of horror held captive in the drawer next to the rules of decorum. None of these photographs met any requirement of social etiquette, just the pure summer innocence of childhood.
The first full-length drawer was empty, but the final drawer was a goldmine of history. Old shorts and t-shirts from us girls, left behind from summers’ past. It had been years since I had stayed in this house and I knew nothing would fit now despite my decent figure.
A soft knock sounded on the bedroom door, interrupting my trip down memory lane. Nana held out an old wife-beater tank top and a pair of olive colored work pants. She tsked again that I had refused the housecoat, but agreed to let me cut the pants for shorts. Following Nana to the room opposite mine on the other side of the staircase, I encountered another space of frozen time as I entered her bedroom. The room was frilly and gauzy, with ruffle edged curtains that practically drowned out the light over thick shades. A comfy double bed with layers of quilts centered the wall space with a bedside table on either side. Nana had talked about how scandalous it was to get a double bed and sleep with her husband, but she also had giddily explained how she liked the comfort of Grandpa being close to her. This bed was also four-posted with a ruffled skirt dressing the bottom. Another rocking chair sat vacant in the corner under the front window, while the dresser faced the doorway. Nana pointed to the top drawer for scissors.
I asked Nana again for her approval to cut the clothes down to size and was surprised when she answered, “Be my guest, honey. John doesn’t need them now.”
This was the first time Nana referenced my grandfather in a past tense way, and I was more than relieved to think Nana might have gone back to realizing her husband was dead. She shook her head in disapproval when I modeled my final outfit, having to add an old belt to hold the shorts up. My attire was presentable enough for the backyard, though, and I found an old lawn chair in the garage for Nana to sit in the shade where she began to direct my work in her garden. Barefoot, something I hadn’t truly been in years, I was ready to tackle the yard on my hands and knees.
I was covered in sweaty dirt an hour later, and had quite a pile of weeds for my labor, as well as a few broken nails. The small section next to the garage was starting to look normal again with vibrant orange daylilies, white Shasta daisies, and hot pink coneflowers, but I let out a deep sigh when I looked to the rest of the garden, knowing this one section measuring six by three had taken almost an hour. Nana looked like she was overworked as well just sitting in the shade, and I suggested a lemonade break before a rest for her while I finished the yard on my own.
Closing my eyes as I lounged in a chair in the yard, I relished a moment of calm in some shade. I heard the hammering on a rooftop nearby, lawn mowing down the street, and the gentle swaying of tree branches in the breeze. It was peaceful and productive sounding compared to the rush of airplanes, trains, and automobiles in Chicago. Horns honking, brakes screeching, and people shouting were a comfort to me, but this was more restful noise. Suddenly feeling like someone was watching me, I opened my eyes but saw n
o one. The hammering was growing louder and Nana’s eyes were drooping as she sat on the faded, yellow, wrought iron couch just inside the screened-in porch.
Returning to the space by the garage, I continued pulling the plants Nana described as weeds with greater knowledge. My hair was falling out of its pony tail at one point, and I sat back on my ankles to wipe my hands on my grandpa-style-shorts when I saw the eyes I’d felt before looking through the scraggly bushes along the back of the yard. Recognizing the bleach-blond braids and blue-grey eyes from yesterday, I smiled and waved, but the little girl just ran away toward the house. The hammering had gotten louder and as I glanced toward the roofline, I saw another set of eyes looking in my direction. I knew they were a matching pair to those of the little girl.
He wore another colored bandana wrapped around his sandy, blond ponytail. His back muscles were rippled and sweaty, and the fact that he was not wearing a shirt explained his tan. My heart beat faster as I took in the sight of him, and I blamed it on my own hard work. He hadn’t stopped hammering, but I knew he was looking in my direction. Wiping my hands on my shorts, I looked away from his stare self-consciously, and returned inside to grab my iPod to drown out the hammering. More importantly, the music would distract me from the nicely tanned, strong back belonging to a blue-eyed man who was beginning to resemble a famous movie star. I returned to the yard and the little girl was at the bushes again. I turned on my iPod but used a portable speaker instead of my ear-buds to blast pop music my nieces had downloaded; some girl whose name sounded like a state, and some trio brother band I didn’t care for, but I thought this young girl might recognize.
I returned to pulling weeds, but looked up every few minutes to check on my observer. I’d catch my little spy swaying side-to-side with the music, but she would stop when she caught me watching her. I inched my way slowly towards the back bushes, pulling and piling, pulling and piling. Finally reaching the corner of the garage closest to the bushes, I said, “Hello” very softly in the direction of this blond beauty. The girl did not run away this time, but stopped and stared directly at me, meeting my blue eyes with hers.
“My name is Emily. What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Have you been taught not to talk to strangers? That’s very smart, but if I tell you my name is Emily and you tell me your name, then we are not strangers anymore.”
Silence.
“Do you know my Nana, Mrs. Parrish? Have you ever played in her playhouse?”
Silence, but the girl looked in the direction of the playhouse. It had been a present from my grandfather to Rosie and me when we were little girls. Nana refused to part with it despite the decrepit look of it.
“Did you know you only have to bring Nana a handful of flowers? They can even be the yellow ones all over the yard, and Nana will let you play for a while.”
It was true. Nana allowed children to play in the playhouse long after Rosie and I outgrew it, requiring payment of only a handful of weeds.
Silence still.
Maybe the girl can’t hear or something, I thought when she made no real response to my numerous questions. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t answer, but it was obvious she was intrigued with me, and possibly wanted into the yard to play in the little house. The hammering on the rooftop stopped suddenly and the silence seemed to be omnipresent.
“Would you like to help me? You could water the flowers for me with the hose. Is that man your daddy? He can see you from the rooftop.”
The little girl turned around to glance at the man with the bandana before looking back at me. She nodded her head very slightly. I didn’t know which question the girl was answering, but the little one walked towards the bushes and then bent down on her hands and knees to crawl under the scrawny branches. Standing perfectly still with shock, I looked up at the man on the roof who had stopped hammering, and now stood upright, looking down into the yard. His stone face looked stunned.
“I’m Emily Post. This is my grandmother’s home. Your lovely daughter has agreed to help me water Nana’s flowers if that is okay with you. You can see her from there and her slave labor will pay her way to play in the playhouse.” My voice sounded too loud in the sudden silence from the lack of hammering, and despite trying to sound cheerfully light, my voice was shaky as I spoke to him. Shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight to look up at him, he continued to stare at me for a moment longer, then looked at his daughter, and bent down to continue hammering the roof.
Well, that was interesting…and rude.
Turning back to my own yard, I found the little girl had already pulled the hose from around the front of the garage and was waiting for me to turn on the water. The knob was stuck and I struggled to turn it. I wasn’t sure I could loosen it, but then a hand covered mine and twisted the knob easily, using my own hand as leverage. White-hot electricity pulsed through me and I jumped backward with the pleasurable sting of it, bumping into the warm bare chest of a man with my own sweaty back. I ungracefully yelped. Turning around, I faced eye to shoulder with bandana man who wore a scowl as his expression. Having trouble controlling my breathing, which was now coming raggedly shallow, I couldn’t find words to speak.
“My daughter’s name is Katie. Katie Carter. She’s six and she doesn’t talk, but she can hear you. I’m almost done fixing the Mueller’s roof, but if you have a problem just yell.”
Frozen despite the heat, I felt like a child as his hard eyes looked me square in the face. I couldn’t find words myself and simply nodded with my lips slightly separated.
Where had he come from so fast?
“You be a good girl and stay out of Mrs. Post’s way. Mind your manners.”
“It’s Emily. Just Emily. No Mrs.,” I blurted out. I had no idea why I said that.
The man walked away through the bushes that brushed his lean, hard abs and my eyes followed the line of green foliage that looked like it was licking his middle. Swallowing hard, I was momentarily jealous of those stupid old bushes. His back was suddenly to me, muscular as I noticed before, and I looked away quickly to face the little girl. Katie.
“Thank you for coming over. You’ll be a big help to me today,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.
“Do you like my music?” I asked and Katie nodded her head with a single yes.
As I bent down to continue weeding, I saw Katie bend her knees rhythmically out of the corner of my eye. I wiggled my behind in the air, following her lead. A spark in her eyes formed as she watched my silly motions and she bounced more enthusiastically, moving the hose back and forth in beat with the music over the flowers. I started to sing again, this time louder despite being off-key. I was basically having a conversation with myself, laughing whenever I messed up the words and commenting on the song lyrics. I felt silly at first, but was assured the girl was listening even though she wasn’t responding to any of my nonsense. Finally, I stood up, motioning for Katie to move towards the garage with the hose. Katie continued swaying while she moved, so I continued to dance a little myself.
At one point, Katie twirled so much she turned the hose onto me and I screeched with shock at the sudden cold spray, regardless of the cool water being refreshing at the same time.
“Did you just spray me?” I asked, trying to keep my tone playful and not angry. Katie stood and stared. It was obvious the girl didn’t know if she was in trouble or not. Rosie’s daughters, my nieces, had the same reaction at times to their own mother’s voice. Smiling broadly, I repeated my question again in a teasing tone.
“Did you just spray me?” I used my best screechy voice as I wiggled my fingers in the direction of the blond beauty before me. I wasn’t certain I could approach the girl in a teasing manner or not, and I didn’t want to frighten her. The rules of touching children were so different now, but the slight smile gave away her pleasure at my taunting. If Katie had been one of my nieces, I would chase her around the yard, pretending to grab for the water instrument. When I finally reached the ho
se, I would have sprayed them unmercifully to squeals of delight, but knowing Katie couldn’t, or wouldn’t, talk, I feared the playfulness would be lost. I decided I needed to switch direction.
“Would you like to see it rain to water the garden?”
Katie nodded her head with approval.
Taking the hose from her, I sprayed the water straight up into the air and droplets rained down on us. The little girl slouched down with her palms upward to protect herself, but she smiled in glee. Eventually, she tried to catch the water in her cupped hands. She didn’t squeal, but she didn’t scream. She smiled, blinking upward, as the water cascaded downward over both of us. Looking at her innocent face, I began to sing another song as my iPod switched playlists. I danced cautiously in a circle and Katie followed my lead, twisting just as slowly under the water. The rays of sunshine reflected through the spray and her little bleach-blond braids glistened in the beams of light.
“Katie?” The deep sound caused me to immediately drop the hose, feeling again like a child caught doing something naughty. I was suddenly conscious of my attire, realizing that Grandpa’s thin t-shirt was now wet and clinging to my body. I was sure the man could see my black bra underneath if he looked, but he wasn’t looking from his side of the bushes. I wasn’t unattractive. I had a slight tan of my own and chestnut colored hair with natural highlights being a signature trademark for me, but knowing that my hair was in a messy bun on the top of my head and was now plastered to my forehead with dirt and water, I became aware of how unattractive I might appear for the second time in front of this man.
“It’s time to go.” His eyes had that hard, cold glare to them again and I noticed his clenched jaw. He ground his teeth in a tense rhythm.
