I couldn’t bear to see that woman reflected in my father’s eyes. I felt as ashamed of her as my father did.
I crumpled up the letter and threw it away.
—
“We’re gonna be late!” Benno cried.
“No, we’re not. Your flight doesn’t leave until three-fifteen. It’s only two-thirty and we’re nearly there.”
Late July. We were only five miles away from SFO, but we were stuck in wall-to-wall traffic on 101. Everybody was trying to get to the airport. I’d known I’d need to leave plenty of time, but not this much.
“I’m supposed to be there an hour before my flight.”
“Stop worrying. I’ll get you there.”
—
He’d been angry the moment he woke up that morning. I heard him slamming things around in his room. He poured himself a bowl of Froot Loops (he was a creature of habit—he ate the same thing for breakfast every day), plopped on the couch, and turned on the stereo. I pretended to read the paper and he raised the volume, wanting to get a rise out of me. I wasn’t about to give him one. I wanted us to part on a positive note. I needed that desperately.
“Are you looking forward to going to Lapis Lake?”
He shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“It’s really amazing, you’re going to love it. It smells incredible there, pine needles and campfires and leaves.”
“If it’s so incredible, why don’t you come?”
I’d never told him about my father’s letter. I’d meant to respond with a card politely declining, but I’d never gotten around to it. Then another month had gone by and the window had passed. When I’d spoken to my mother about Benno’s flights, neither of us had brought it up.
“What are you gonna do for a month while I’m gone?” Benno asked suspiciously.
I’d agreed to let Benno stay an extra two weeks this year. If Benno and my dad were going to the lake, my mother had to have her time with him as well.
“Oh, Benno. I’m going to work. What do you think I’m going to do?”
—
I got him to the gate just as it was closing. He no longer needed an escort. He’d been making this trip for four years.
Benno darted past me and into the Jetway.
“Wait, give me a hug!”
The stewardess tapped her foot impatiently, giving me a dirty look. It was too late for hugs.
I watched Benno until he turned the corner and was gone.
—
The traffic back into the city was even worse. I showed up for my 4:00 P.M. shift at 5:28.
Mike met me at the entrance of Seven Hills. “No,” he said, blocking the door. “You’re done here. Go home.”
“I’m sorry, I had to drive Benno to the airport and we got stuck—”
He gave me a grim look.
“For tonight, right, Mike? Go home just for tonight?”
But it wasn’t just for tonight. It was for all the future nights.
I was out of a job.
Lux walked across the meadow instead of running.
“Something’s happened,” said Martha.
Something. A personal setback, or an event of a more global nature? Had war broken out? Had there been another earthquake? Was Benno sick?
“Does she look older to you?” I asked.
“She looks worn out,” said Martha. “And a little older. I’d guess maybe a year has passed.”
Nine months, she told us. She emptied her pack right there in the dining hall: toothpaste for Fancy, seeds for Martha. The Betty Crocker cookbook for the kitchen crew.
“Are you feeling well?” asked Martha.
“I’m tired. I’ve been working too hard. Double shifts.”
“Benno?” I asked.
“It’s August. He’s in Newport. Well, actually he went to Lapis Lake with my father.”
I’d known Lux for nearly a year now. If Newport was a blow, Lapis Lake was a shot to the heart. I could see it on her face.
“Any news we should know about?” asked Martha.
She pursed her lips. “There was a blizzard in New England in February. They caught this serial killer, Ted Bundy. Scientists discovered a moon orbiting Pluto.”
“Anything else?” asked Martha gently, hoping she’d reveal something of a more personal nature.
Emotions flitted across Lux’s face. Fear. Worry. Despair.
“No. Nothing that matters, anyway.”
—
Thirty minutes later we were mucking out stalls.
“You don’t have to do this. You’ve just arrived. Why not take on an easier job today? The domestic crew is making rag rugs,” I said.
She raked the horse dung into a pile. “I don’t want to make rugs. I want to do something that requires muscle. Something that tires me out.”
I was in the stall next to hers but could hear how aggressively she was raking.
“You think I don’t know how to roll up my sleeves and dig in!” she shouted.
I propped my rake up against the wall and walked into her stall. “What in God’s name is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She dumped a load of dung into the wheelbarrow. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”
“Something’s happened.”
She wore a pair of loose brown trousers, a vest, and a blouse.
“And why are you dressed like a man?” I asked.
“I am dressed like Annie Hall, for your information. One of Woody Allen’s most brilliant feminist creations. This is a style.” She practically stamped her foot at me.
“You’re sad,” I said.
“Fuck you,” she said.
“You’re angry.”
“Fuck you,” she repeated, her face crumpling.
I grabbed both her hands. Startled, she pulled back, but I kept a firm grip on her. “What’s happened? You must tell me.”
“Why must I tell you?”
“Because I want to know.” Because—I was surprised to realize—I cared deeply about her well-being.
She huffed. “There’s a new video game called Space Invaders; Benno is addicted to it. Kentucky beat Duke in the Final Four. Bianca and Mick Jagger are getting divorced.”
“That’s not what I want to know.”
“What do you want? A confession? Fine. Here you go. I’m a terrible person.”
“No,” I said steadily. “You are a fine person. A good person. Who thinks about others. Who means well.”
“No. I’m irresponsible and I can’t be counted upon and my boss just fired my ass.” Her face reddened and she held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t say a word. I don’t want your pity.”
This was one of the qualities I’d grown to admire most in Lux. She truly did not want my pity. She could stomach anger, criticism, neglect, even abuse, but she couldn’t abide having somebody feel sorry for her. She had so much pride.
“Well, it’s about bloody time,” I said. “You’re far too intelligent for that job.”
—
“Are you crazy?” she asked. “A doctor? A lawyer? A banker?”
It was 1979. Women were barkeeps. Surely they were doctors and lawyers and bankers, too. Why shouldn’t she aim high?
“Do you know how many years of school I’d need for any one of those jobs?”
“Then go back to school.”
“And just who will pay for this school? And what will Benno and I live on while I go back to school?”
I sighed. “All right, then we’ll set our sights a bit lower, but not much.”
“Humph,” she said, her arms crossed.
“Lux, this won’t work unless you remain open to new possibilities.”
“I’m open, Joseph; I’m just not unrealistic.”
“All right. How about a store?”
“What kind of a store?”
“Whatever you’re interested in. What are you interested in? What sort of products?”
She smirked. “I like candy.”
“That’s it—you can open a sweets shop!”
She glowered. “You can’t be serious. They sell sweets, as you put it, in every bodega on the corner of every block. Besides, I’m sure that the profit margin on candy is quite slim, not to mention my lack of money for start-up costs.”
She rolled her eyes at me.
“I can see now is not a good time to discuss your future. Perhaps when you’re in a better mood.” I walked out of the stall.
“No, no. I’m sorry. Don’t go.” She groaned. “I just feel so hopeless. I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. Keep asking me questions, please. There’s nobody else who talks to me like this. Who would ever think I had it in me to be a doctor.” She smiled softly. “Or a banker. Imagine that.”
“You should imagine that,” I said to her.
My mother had imagined that. And she’d fought for that. And ultimately she’d died for that: that one day women would have the same opportunities as men.
“You should set high expectations for yourself,” I said. “Nobody else will if you don’t.”
“You really believe I can pull something like that off? With my life the way it is? With Benno? At my age?”
For God’s sake, the woman was only twenty-nine. She was acting as if her life was over. She was so beaten down. If I could, I’d have paid for her education, for her start-up costs, for whatever she needed to begin again.
“I believe you can do anything if you work hard and put in the time,” I said.
—
I watched Martha performing her nightly ablutions. Washing her face vigorously with soap. Patting it dry gently with a flannel. A dab of lavender oil applied to her cheeks in feathery, upward strokes.
“She’s staying a full month?” asked Martha.
“That’s what she says. What else does she have to do? Her son is in Newport. She lost her job.”
“Shouldn’t she be looking for a new job?”
“She needs a rest.”
“Greengage is a rest?”
“For her it is.”
Martha pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. “She brought me sundrop seeds. I can’t plant them now, it’s too early.”
“Then we have something to look forward to,” I said.
“That is the plan.”
That was always the plan with Martha. That’s why she loved gardening so much. It was an act of hope. Of promises yet to be fulfilled. Of future joys. It was a simple calculus. You planted and waited.
Perhaps my father had done me a favor. Now that Benno was going to the lake, I could let go of it. I could pass that baton on to my son, along with all the regrets and nostalgia that went with it. I’d lost my place at the lake and I’d lost my place out in the world. But in Greengage, I was found.
I belonged here. Everything felt familiar now. I’d worked on practically every crew and was capable at all of them, although I most loved the kitchen, winery, education, and the herbal apothecary. Martha had taught me how to make a simple tincture. She’d even let me peek at her family’s herbarium.
Today I was working with Friar in the infirmary, not that he needed much help: he hadn’t had any patients in days. I dropped the metal implements into the soapy water.
“Let’s launder the bandages, too,” he said.
“Are they soiled?” The bandages appeared freshly washed.
He scratched behind his ear. “I guess not.” He was searching for things to keep me occupied.
“Throw them in,” I said.
I’d been here a week and was starting to feel hopeful. Maybe I did have a future. I’d told Joseph the only legal, non-restaurant jobs available for a woman with a high school diploma were menial: receptionist, secretary, salesclerk. Any of those would be better than waitressing, he’d said: more stable hours, potential for advancement, less physically taxing.
That was the first phase of the plan. The second was that I get myself back in school. I could attend City College at night and in two years’ time have an associate’s degree.
The front door of the infirmary swung open. Ilsa shuffled in. She looked pale. Her eyes were glazed. Two bright splotches of red shone on her cheeks.
Friar helped her into the examination room. “My God, you’re burning up,” I heard him say.
A few minutes later he told me, “Find Martha.”
In the next hour three more people came into the infirmary with the same symptoms. I wanted to stay and help but they kicked me out.
“Go tend the lavender,” commanded Martha.
She had a separate lavender garden. Ten long rows of it. I’d spent hours tending that garden. I knew its pests, its contours, its dry soil, like I knew the N-Judah bus schedule. She didn’t have to tell me what had to be done.
—
Late that afternoon, Joseph came back to the house. He’d spent the day on the building crew, installing new shelves in the root cellar.
“What’s happening in the infirmary?” I asked.
“Six people are ill now.”
“Oh God.”
He gave me a perplexed look. “There’s no need for alarm. It’s a simple flu. Martha and Friar have it well in hand.”
“Are they taking precautions so they don’t get sick?”
“Martha has a hearty constitution; however, she’s not taking any chances. She’s been exposed and doesn’t want to get anybody sick. She’ll sleep at the infirmary tonight,” he said.
—
Joseph was right: Martha and Friar had it well in hand. It was a quick-passing influenza. It began with a sore throat. Next the fever spiked and then came the nausea. A couple of uncomfortable days in bed, but by the third day, up and walking around again.
Even though I assured Martha I had been vaccinated against and exposed to every kind of disease known to twentieth-century man, she advised me to go home. I gently refused. Instead I tended her plants and cut back the grass around the flower clock. She still hadn’t completed it. She’d managed to get ten sections of it working, the blooms opening and shutting on the hour, but the section between eleven and twelve still eluded her. In the apothecary I turned the jars of tincture every morning so that each blossom and root and stem had its daily light.
In short, I tried to make myself indispensable.
—
“Are those diaries?” I asked.
Joseph sat at his desk in the parlor, a pile of unopened notebooks in front of him.
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to read your personal journals.”
“There’s nothing personal in there. They’re market notebooks. It’s how I keep—how I kept—track of the fields. Evaluate the crops. Calculate yields and productivity. Money in, money out. Distribute profit checks. Obviously, there’s no need to do that anymore.”
“Well, maybe that’s a relief not to have to worry? Only having to provide for yourselves?”
“I’m not sure what it is.”
When I’d first met Joseph, he seemed so much older than me in every way. I was twenty-nine now and I’d known him for four years. Even though he’d aged only nine months in that time, I felt like I was rapidly approaching his age. It helped that he treated me as an equal.
“I think this flu has run its course,” he said.
About a quarter of the people in Greengage had cycled through it. We hadn’t seen much of Martha for the past two weeks, but only a few people remained in the infirmary now.
“Martha will be home tomorrow for good.”
“You must be happy about that.”
“She’s exhausted. She needs to sleep in her own bed.”
“It’s strange,” I said. “How slowly things change. I mean, you know things will change, of course they’re going to change, they always do, but when you’re in the moment sometimes it feels like that moment will never be over.”
“Time elongates.”
“Exactly, it stretches. A
nd sometimes that’s a good thing, if it’s a good moment and you don’t ever want to leave it. And sometimes it’s a bad thing.”
He finished my thought. “And you find yourself trapped in a terrible moment forever.”
“Yes,” I said. “This is not a terrible moment, you know that, right?”
Martha grimaced as she worked the bar of soap between her palms. Her hands were raw from washing them so much.
“Why don’t you let me heat the water?” I asked.
“There’s no need, Joseph.”
I made her some toast and a soft-boiled egg. Even though she’d barely slept in days, Martha was full of energy. Her leg jittered up and down under the table and her eyes were bright. She thrived in a crisis.
“We’re down to John,” she said. “His temperature was normal today but we kept him one last night just to be sure.”
She sopped the rest of her egg yolk up with her toast.
“Shall I make you another egg?”
She pushed her plate away. “No, thank you.”
“Some tea.”
“No.”
“A biscuit.”
She gave me the faintest glimmer of a smile. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
“It’s only seven and you said you’re not tired.”
“Bed,” she whispered, taking me by the hand.
Oh. Bed. I followed her up the stairs.
—
The next morning Martha slept in. I went back to the house at lunchtime to check on her, and she’d just risen. She bustled around the kitchen, wiping down counters, tossing a rotten apple into the compost bucket.
“When is Lux going? The moon will be full in two days.”
“Today or tomorrow,” I said, guessing. I hadn’t spoken to her about it. She’d stay as long as she could, I suspected. She might never have an opportunity to put her life on hold for a month again.
—
I spent the afternoon mulching garlic, Fancy by my side.
“I’m famished, Joseph. Did you bring any sweets?” she asked.
“Why, yes, right here in my pocket.”
“Really?”
I raised my eyebrows at her.
“I should know better than to count on you,” she said. “You only think of yourself.”
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