I took a detour from John tonight and turned instead to Psalm 68:4. It seemed perfect to use as a benediction for my time at the Grand Canyon: “Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds—his name is the Lord—and rejoice before him.”
Then, before I closed my Bible, my eyes moved down to the next verse, 68:5. I was stunned by the words waiting there for me: “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”
I sat there with my Bible open on my lap for some time, knowing once more the “defender of widows” had tenderly reminded me that he was near.
sixteen
September 8
I rode a mule. And I’m not kidding, as Ruby would say.
It just worked out. I got up earlier than I would ever have wanted to and followed the smell of mules to the designated place of departure, where I learned there was a six-mile day trip to a plateau about fourteen hundred feet above the Colorado River.
“So,” I said to the young man behind the counter, “do you have a spare mule I can ride this morning?”
“Sorry,” he said, “we’re full up.”
“Hold it,” his cohort said.
One of the girls in a family of six discussing the adventure they were about to share was apparently not at all up for it. As he spoke, I could hear the girl huddled with her family, being quite adamant about not killing herself on a fall to the bottom of the canyon.
I understood.
Never would I have dreamed I would have ended my time at the Grand Canyon descending it on the back of a mule.
“Tell me her name isn’t Sasha,” I said to Bart, the guide who helped me into the saddle of the smallest mule in the bunch.
“It’s a he, ma’am.”
Easy mistake.
“This isn’t his first time out, is it?” I asked.
Bart actually smiled under his handlebar mustache. “No, ma’am. Ned here is as seasoned and as sure-footed as they come.”
Okay then, I thought, reaching up to pat Ned after I got situated. “Good boy.”
I’d bought a book of photographs depicting wonderful scenes of the canyon to put on the table next to my chair in the living room, but nothing could equal seeing it from the uncomfortable back of my mule, Ned. My favorite part of the experience was when he turned to rest facing the expanse of the canyon. It was terrifying and exhilarating.
Each time I thought about it on the way to Willa’s, I smiled.
I don’t think I was smiling when I thought about the e-mail I found from Andrew this morning.
“I was surprised to finally get a response,” he wrote. “I’m glad to know you’re okay and that you’ve forgiven me. I know I’m pressing my luck here, but I would like to see you. I could make a trip to Springfield sometime if it’s okay with you. Or if you’re coming to see Willa one of these days, I could see you here. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and decided to at least ask—nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you think?”
“I think you’re crazy,” I wrote.
Then, after my adventure on the mule and before I put away the laptop, I sent another message: “I’ll be at Willa’s tonight.”
I arrived at Willa’s around eight, just as Ed was pulling into the garage.
Willa ran out to meet me. “Woo hoo! You’re here. I can’t believe it!”
I got out of the car and gave her a hug. “I hope you don’t mind—I’ve been snacking, but I didn’t stop to eat dinner. You’ll have to dig up something. I’m starving.”
“No problem. I can’t wait to feed you!”
We walked into the air-conditioned house, where Ed was putting groceries on the black granite counter.
“Hi, pretty lady,” he said. “I’ll get your bags and put them in the casita.”
“Oh, thank you, Ed,” I said as he walked back to the front door. “Lugging two or three suitcases and a laptop around has been the worst part of this trip. Tom usually had the trunk emptied and luggage inside our room before I could find my purse.”
When Ed had closed the front door behind him, I told Willa that most nights I leave my shoe bag in the car and simply get out the pair I think I’ll need the next day.
“What about laundry?” she asked. “Your trip isn’t hassle free, is it?”
“I send the laundry out, usually. And I’m getting used to the hassles. It hasn’t been bad really. Overall, it’s been good, in fact. Right now, however, everything I own needs washing or cleaning, so I hope you know what we’re doing tomorrow.”
She was ready to get my things and start the wash right then, but I told her I wanted nothing more than to sit down and let her chat away about her life.
She said she had a better idea.
“You get out to the casita and get settled. You’ll find ice and Diet Coke in the refrigerator. Come back inside in a half hour and I’ll have something for you to eat while I entertain you with my cheerful banter.”
“I’m quite in the mood for your cheerful banter,” I said, walking toward the door. “I’ll be back.”
When I came back into the house, Ed had gone off to join a card game at the clubhouse to give Willa and me time alone. While she talked, I ate a pasta salad she had put together while I unpacked and sorted laundry. Actually, we ended up entertaining each other. She caught me up on her kids and grandkids and I caught her up on mine, and when my hunger was satisfied, she wanted to know every place I had gone and everything I had seen and every person with whom I had talked or made eye contact, including the prairie dog. She thought I was making up Ruby and Pearl, and I said I’d like to know how I could make them up.
When we had given conversation a rest and were quietly cleaning the kitchen, Willa walked over to the desk.
“Listen to this,” she said, pressing the message button on her answering machine. “Willa, this is Drew. Will you call me when Audrey arrives?”
“So,” she said, “what’s that all about?”
I told her about our e-mail exchanges.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she said. “You know, he didn’t have a ring on the night I saw him at the restaurant. And he was with two other guys. It looked like a business dinner.”
“You check out rings?” I asked.
“I was curious.” She lifted my bare left hand. “I checked yours out too.”
“An attempt to quit thinking of Tom in the present tense,” I explained.
Willa gave me a quick hug.
“It’s a bummer,” she said.
We laughed at her ridiculous understatement.
“Profound summary, if I’ve ever heard it,” I said. “And maybe all there is to say.”
The kitchen restored to order, I pulled out the towel rack and hung the damp towel I was holding and told Willa I was ready to crash in the casita.
“Thanks for a wonderful dinner,” I said, giving her another hug. “And thank Ed for filling the car and taking it through the car wash. Tom always did that for me. Suddenly, having it done seems the greatest luxury.”
“You’re welcome, from both of us. He was anxious for you to get here so he could do it.”
“That is so sweet. Treat him nice when he gets home,” I said, walking toward the front door. “I’d better get settled.”
“Wait,” Willa said. “Should I ask Andrew, or Andrew and his wife, whichever the case may be, to dinner tomorrow night?”
“If you want to.”
Willa called out here just now to say Andrew is coming. Alone. He’s been divorced for two years.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? Because I can call him back and say I changed my mind.”
“It’s okay.”
“See you tomorrow, then,” she said. “Whenever you want to show up at the door is fine.”
I thought coming here would be an intrusion on what I’ve come to think of as a unique and precious time with the Lord; instead I think it might be a respite in my solitary journey. Willa makes me happy. I’m surprise
d I agreed to see Andrew, but it seems right. Not comfortable, but right. I’m trying to listen, trying to discern and act on the right thing. When did that begin again? I’m not sure, but I know when the impulse ceased: the afternoon we stood by a grave and told Tom good-bye.
Unpacking in the casita this evening, I was sad to realize I had all the drawer and closet space to myself. But it both surprised and pleased me that thinking of Tom was equal parts sorrow and joy.
September 9
By eleven, Willa and I had put a load of clothes in the washer and another load in the dryer and left the house with an agenda: the cleaners, the bank, and a light lunch. We had my closet full of clean clothes and dinner prepared by four, and I came out here to read and rest and get ready for the evening with Willa, Ed, and Andrew. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror putting on makeup, glad Andrew had seen me at my father’s funeral and at my worst, I’d guess. Despite how kind the years are to any of us, time and gravity do their appointed work.
“Who’s this?” Kelsie had asked, holding the wedding picture Katy handed her.
“Your nana,” I said, looking over her shoulder. “A long time ago.”
She glanced at me and then at the picture several times before she gave it to me to put back up on the shelf.
“I like you now,” she said.
The girl in that picture was a stranger, and Kelsie wasn’t interested in her. Others are, I’ve noticed. When I was home a few years ago and returning a bedspread for Mom, I ran into a friend at Penney’s.
“Audrey,” he had said. “Is that you?”
I wondered how the man knew me.
“It’s Tim. Tim Cook.”
“Timmy?” I asked. He had been my biology partner and had made dissecting a frog more traumatic than it needed to be. While we exchanged biographical information accumulated since high school, he kept staring at me. Finally he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m looking for the girl,” he said.
Taken off guard by such a statement, I laughed. Then I mumbled something about needing to get home.
He meant no harm, but I really have no desire to be around people looking for “the girl.” It devalues the woman.
I’m glad Andrew saw me at Dad’s funeral and has a mental image of me more recent than our tenth reunion. Of course, serious changes occur between forty-seven and fifty-five. If Tom were alive and by my side, I might not worry about it. But I’ll walk in alone tonight, so I’ve thought about what I’ll wear—black crop pants, a soft white T-shirt, and a beige jean jacket—and I’ve spent time on my hair and applied my makeup as carefully as possible, blushing my way to good health. The woman will look as good as possible tonight.
And she will give of herself. At least she’ll try.
When I opened the front door, Andrew was standing in profile across the room, and I was shocked that I could easily recognize him. Tom would have called him a “flat belly,” the term his golfer friends over fifty used for the thirty-something men who sometimes joined them. I’ve lost weight since Tom died because of a disinterest in food, but Andrew, appearing to have zero body fat, is ridiculously trim for a man his age. One does not look like that at fifty-five. He wore a cotton print shirt, stonewashed slacks, and loafers without socks. His brown hair had only a trace of gray, just enough to testify he does not color his hair. He most definitely looks like a man who would choose Clairol for Men should the need arise.
The door clicked as I shut it behind me, and he turned to look at me. The eyes are always recognizable, are they not? His were full of recognition and energy and delight. If I could have moved, I might have walked right back out the door.
He didn’t come closer, and I admired the intuition that kept him across the room, saying simply, “Hello, Audrey.”
Words out of his mouth, natural and pleasant, allowed me to move.
I walked into the room and smiled at two of my oldest friends standing there together, Willa and Andrew.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true.”
Willa had dinner on the table, except for the salmon Ed was bringing in from the grill, and we sat at the informal table in the room open to the kitchen and ate well and talked easily. The three of them seemed to sense I did not want to discuss anything personal. But when Willa insisted I repeat and elaborate on details of my trip for Ed and Andrew, I was willing, even glad, to contribute at least that much.
“I still can’t believe I am taking such a trip,” I said, concluding the major events that had transpired in the last month.
“You never did anything halfway,” Andrew said, admiration in his eyes.
He picked up the conversation then, providing answers to all our questions. He was married to Susan only five years. They divorced two years after the reunion. At that point, thirty years old, he had decided he had no desire to be governor of Oklahoma or any other state and joined a prestigious Phoenix firm.
“Prestigious, huh?” I asked. But the question was not a reprimand, and he seemed to know it when I flashed him a genuine smile. He actually laughed, acknowledging his pretentious tendencies.
Two years later he met and married Marlene, and they had a daughter, his only child, who is a junior in college. When he mentioned his daughter, Allie, I was strangely pleased that he pulled out his billfold to show me her graduation picture, and it seemed to make him happy when I touched the face in the picture and said, “Now, that’s beautiful.”
“Her mother and I divorced after she graduated and left for college, something we had planned for some time.”
“I’m sure your daughter hated that,” I said.
“She did. But she seems fine with it now. She’s very busy. She gets home every month or two and manages a night with each of us, a week on long breaks. It’s working out.”
When I asked him about work, he said he was a corporate lawyer, ready not to work so hard. He had been thinking of semi-retiring to a lake in Oklahoma and working from there when something interesting came along.
“That sounds like something people only dream about,” I said.
“Do I look like a dreamer to you?” he asked.
“Well, let’s put it this way—I can’t quite see you retiring to a lake in Oklahoma. But what do I know about it, really?”
I got up then to help Willa bring over dessert, and Ed and Andrew talked real estate investments. Andrew and his best friend, Dan, a realtor who sold him his first house when he moved to the valley, have invested in a variety of properties together. I placed Andrew’s carrot cake in front of him, thinking he could probably buy an Oklahoma lake, even if he didn’t build a house on it and settle down there.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
The ordinary and civil exchange seemed bizarre.
We talked a while longer, cleaned up the kitchen together, and considered playing a game of cards, but then by some sort of mutual consent, we decided to make it an early evening. The four of us stood in the living area near the entry, and he thanked Willa and Ed for dinner and said he had had a great time. “I can’t imagine a better one, in fact.”
Then he turned to me as though no one else were in the room. “I don’t think you could know how good it is to see you,” he said.
“It’s good to see you too, Andrew.”
If there was more to say, we did not say it.
seventeen
September 10
I enjoyed attending church with people I know and going out to eat with Willa and Ed afterward at a nice restaurant. I ate most of a small loaf of bread before my entrée was placed in front of me. Since my appetite has returned, I have enjoyed nothing more than carbs. If dieting becomes a necessity someday, I’ll have to find a diet that does not eliminate them. (It’s probably called a balanced diet.)
Willa and Ed dropped me off at the house
and left to do a service project with their small group, organizing a food pantry, I think she said. Later, the group was going to gather for dinner at the home of one of the couples. Willa said that I could join them, but she had agreed to the project because it would give me the space she had promised. I thanked her for the invitation and also for her expectation of my preference for privacy.
“I’ll let you work,” I said, “while I lie out by your pool like a hedonistic bum.”
“Good plan,” Willa said as they backed out of the driveway.
I had been lying on the lounger an hour or so when I heard the door to the patio open and wondered what brought Willa back so soon. I put my sunglasses on top of my head, a crude but effective headband, and turned to see not Willa but Andrew standing in the afternoon sun.
“I took a chance you’d be here,” he said. “Do you mind?”
I grabbed the sarong lying on the concrete beside my lounger and covered as much of the fifty-five-year-old me as possible, while Andrew, dressed in long khaki shorts, a blue polo shirt, and another pair of loafers without socks, dragged a twin lounger over, saying he’d rung the doorbell and had come on in thinking we might be out here.
I told him there was no “we” this afternoon.
He seemed happy to hear that.
“Do you think Willa would mind if I got us something to drink?” he asked, halfway to the door before I could say anything.
He made the trip into the kitchen and back out and handed me a soda. “Thanks,” I said. “I really am thirsty. I shouldn’t have come out until later, I imagine. Do you have swimming trunks on under those shorts?”
“No,” he said, “but if it gets too hot, I can skinny-dip.”
“Willa has an assortment of bathing suits inside.”
“How provincial,” he said, smiling like the boy who had looked back at me in our junior language arts class. “But I didn’t come to swim. I came to see you. I should have risked calling, I guess.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this unscheduled visit. But if I’m honest, I’d have to say I wasn’t completely sorry to look up and see Andrew there. We sat beside each other and talked about our children, summarizing in an hour or so a lifetime with them. After he went inside to refill our drinks and sat back down again, I volunteered stories about the grandkids, which he encouraged with rapt attention and laughter in all the right places. The rude zoo bear story started the collection of anecdotes. It had been prompted by his asking what I am going to do while I’m here and my answering I know only what I’m not going to do.
Tender Grace Page 12
