“I was just about to do it.”
“If you hired me, part-time, I could do it.” She felt her body shaking. What was she thinking? William would be so pissed. But she couldn’t stop herself from imagining what it might be like to actually be around people and activity again. To have money of her own. And William didn’t have to know. “I’m a really good worker. And spring is just starting up. I bet you’re going to need help. Why not try me out?”
“I already have a crew.”
“But you might need more.”
“I don’t know—”
“How about just for today? Then you can decide.”
She gave him her best smile, saw him loosen.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lucy,” she said, and she knew she was hired.
HE WOULDN’T LET her work the cash register, but she could stock the shelves and arrange displays. She could go in the greenhouse, which was so warm she shucked her jacket off. She watered the cold-hardy geraniums and the leeks, chard, and spinach, the year-round crops, and harvested some to sell. Out at the stand, she sorted through the fruit and vegetable bins, taking out the produce that was going bad and restocking it from the root cellar.
While Patrick showed her what to do, Lucy gave him bits and pieces of information about herself, but not necessarily the truth. She told him she lived by herself in Ryserstone, where there was nothing all around her, just a small house and some chickens that had taken forever to like her.
“Rysterstone? I don’t believe I know where that is,” Patrick said.
“It’s a nice walk from here to there.”
“It’s not so safe out there. You don’t know what’s on those roads.”
“Sure, I do.” She rearranged an errant carrot. “I’m on leave from college.”
“What college?”
“Brandeis.” She looked away from him. “I’m going to be a vet.”
“Pretty far from school, aren’t you?”
“I told you. Leave of absence. I’ll go back.”
She kept working the rest of the day, loving the way it felt to be busy and full of purpose. Sometimes customers asked her things, and she was happy when she could answer them. At the end of the day, she walked over to Patrick. “So, can I come back?” she said.
He was quiet for a minute, making her a little scared. And then he smiled. “Sure. Come back tomorrow around nine.”
Chapter 10
It was April when Iris received a postcard from Lucy, a cowboy with a ten-gallon hat and a lasso. There was a circle of red on it, as if someone had used it as a coaster. On the back was the shock of Lucy’s handwriting. The postcard trembled in her hand. Her eyes flooded. I am fine. I am happy. I love you. Please don’t worry. Lucy.
Iris pressed the card to her forehead. Then she turned the postcard over in her hands, rereading the message again and then once more. There was no return address, so she looked for a postmark. November. This was mailed in November, so why had it taken all these months to get here? She looked at the address again. The zip code was wrong by one number, Lucy’s handwriting was illegible, and it looked as if the card had even been sent to two different states—Pennsylvania and Ohio—before it got here.
How could that be? She called information and got the number of the local post office, but the person on the phone was no help at all. “This is a rural area, ma’am,” the woman on the phone said. “You can’t track someone down here.” But Iris didn’t give up. She called the police and then the private detective again, but they all told her the same thing. Impossible. It was impossible.
She wouldn’t believe that. She wouldn’t give up. There had to be a way.
Iris called Charlotte, who came right over, a denim jacket thrown over her dress. When she saw the postcard, she rolled it over in her hands so many times that Iris wanted to take it from her. “It took so long to get here—” Iris said.
“She can’t call?” Charlotte said quietly. “She can’t give us a phone number or an address?”
“She’s alive, that’s what matters. She’ll call us eventually. I know she will—and she says she’s happy—”
“Happy? Happy doing what? Being where? It’s so irresponsible. So cruel. It’s not like her—” Charlotte began to pace.
“Stop. Stop this. This is good news,” Iris said. “I’m sure it’s just the beginning, and she’s let us know she’s all right! Why are you so angry?” She held out a hand. “Please stop moving around like that. It’s making me dizzy.”
Charlotte abruptly slapped the postcard on the table and sat down. “Aren’t you mad, too? Even a little? Why is this all right for her to do to you?” Charlotte asked. “To us?”
“Why are you raising your voice to me?”
“Because my sister is so selfish I can’t stand it! I love her and I’m glad she’s okay, but doesn’t she think that we’re still going to worry? That we’d like to know where she is? How she’s living? Doesn’t she know how worried we are? This postcard — it’s all on her terms. She can reach out to us, but we can’t reach out to her? Is that right? Is that fair?”
“Oh, honey, she’s the baby of the family—she doesn’t realize—”
“She’s not a baby. She’s grown up enough to make decisions that hurt others.”
“I’m not excusing anything, I’m just relieved she’s all right.” Iris couldn’t bear the way Charlotte was looking at her, and she tried to speak and coughed, and then she couldn’t keep her breath and she had to sit down. She felt Charlotte hovering over her, her hands moving across Iris’s back as if she were trying to read a secret message.
“Honey, I’m all right,” Iris said.
“Are you sure?” Charlotte said quietly, and Iris nodded.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you water. Make you tea,” Charlotte said, but when she started to get up, Iris took her arm.
“Stay here,” Iris said. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I have to go back and study,” Charlotte said.
“You always ace every test,” Iris said.
“No,” Charlotte said, sighing. “I don’t. Not anymore. College is harder than high school.”
Iris was quiet for a moment. “Do you know how proud I am of you?” she said quietly.
“For failing? For not finding Lucy, for screwing up college?” Charlotte’s skin began to blotch under her right eye, the way it always did when she was upset.
“You haven’t failed. You got into a fantastic school and you’ll do better. It just takes time.” Iris cupped Charlotte’s face until Charlotte closed her eyes. “Go home, honey,” Iris said.
AS SOON AS Charlotte left, Iris felt troubled. What could she really do to help Charlotte? She couldn’t study for her, and when she had offered a tutor, Charlotte had just shaken her head. Charlotte had accused her of being soft on Lucy, and maybe she was—but wasn’t that what love was all about?
It hurt her to see Charlotte so lonely, but what could she do? When the girls were little, Iris had taken them both around the neighborhood, looking for children playing. Then she would call out, “This is Charlotte and Lucy, and they’re new to the neighborhood. How would you like to play with them?” The kids were always welcoming, and when Iris came back later to retrieve the girls, both their faces were shining.
But Charlotte was grown now. Iris couldn’t make friends for her anymore, couldn’t make sure she ate. There was supposed to be a separation in college. You were supposed to let kids try on their new lives, their fresh independence, and if it made Iris lonely, so what? This was the way it was supposed to be, and she would have to let Charlotte go, let her face her struggles.
When Lucy had first vanished, the neighbors had been helpful. Betty Hunter down the block had put up missing posters around the Star Market and the Wal-Lex. Bob Farragher had driven her to the police station more than a few times because she was too upset to drive herself. Now they were back in their old routines.
Well, maybe she could work harder at finding Lucy. Sh
e got out a pad and pencil and began to write things down. Call all Lucy’s old friends and see if they remember anything. Her pencil stopped. She had forgotten what else she was going to write down. She couldn’t remember the names of Lucy’s friends. She rubbed at her temples. It had been happening more and more lately. Last night, she hadn’t been able to find the TV remote and had almost given up on watching a show, until she opened her purse and there it was. The day before she had put a roast in the oven and had forgotten to turn the oven on. It was stress, she told herself. It was nothing. She did get winded more often, but there was a solution for that, too. She could hire people to do the things she needed to get done. When the grass grew too long, she hired two neighborhood boys to mow it. After a while, the boys began showing up at her door every other Sunday, sheepish, knocking into one another, all knees and elbows, asking her, “What else can we do for you?” She sent them out with a grocery list. They washed her car. For five dollars they would do pretty much anything she asked.
One afternoon, a beautiful April day, Iris went down to the basement to do a wash. The basement had been a real selling point to the house. The real estate agent had told her she could always make it over into another small apartment, but she never gave it a thought. She had loved having something subterranean, but the girls had been so afraid of the basement when they were growing up. Lucy used to tell Iris that she was sure there was a family of wolves living down there, that they dressed in overalls, and that she could hear them howling at night. “There are no wolves,” Iris had told her, but the girls still cowered by the door, giggling with the pleasure of being scared, and sometimes Iris thought they just made up the wolves to get out of doing the laundry.
She put a load in the dryer and was heading for the stairs when her right knee locked. Her hands flew to her leg, rubbing at the jolt of pain. Her left arm hurt, too, and her breath seemed squeezed, but that was probably just panic. She couldn’t lift her leg to make the stairs. Iris stared up at the steps. Fourteen of them. But each one now seemed as insurmountable as the Empire State Building. “Help,” she said experimentally. Outside, the Browns’ collie Winston barked hysterically.
She rubbed at her kneecap. It was just swelling, and that would go down. She tired again to go up the stairs, but there was a flare of pain, like a comet. She settled herself down on a pile of towels. All she had to do was wait it out. The soreness would go away and then she could go back upstairs.
IN THE MORNING, she tried to move, but her knee had stiffened, locking her leg in place. She tried to drag herself up the stairs, the way the girls had done when they were little, but she missed a step and tumbled back down. She was getting hungry. She had a neighbor, a Mormon, who kept a year’s supply of food in her basement, in case of flood or disaster. At the time, Iris had thought, What a great waste. But now she wished for a can of tuna, some cling peaches or chips.
Plus, she had to pee.
She could crawl, and she made it to the bucket she used to wash the floor. It was humiliating, but what else could she do?
All that day, she watched the basement windows. She saw the children running by. “Help!” she screamed, but they ran past. A large gray tabby leaned against the pane, falling asleep and blocking her view and most of the sun for hours, until it finally woke and left.
She didn’t start to panic until the world turned dark again. Her chest felt stitched up, as if a hand were cupping her heart, squeezing it. She stumbled over to the washing machine and ran it cold, cupping her hands, sipping the water. But how long could she go without food? Upstairs, she heard the phone ringing. Four times, then six, and then it stopped. “Wait!” she cried.
The house ticked around her. She saw a mouse in one of the corners, and then it scampered away. She heard someone’s car pulling in. She went back to the stairs and sat. Her knee throbbed. Her chest felt heavy and she couldn’t seem to breathe. Her eyes shut.
HANDS WERE PULLING her up. Her eyes fluttered open. Charlotte hovered over her, her face pale. “How long have you been down here?” Charlotte asked. Iris could hear the silence. The dog and the kids were gone.
She stretched and stood. “I’m so hungry,” she said. When she stood up, the room moved in waves. She saw the wash bucket full of urine and was embarrassed. She didn’t want Charlotte to see it, too.
Charlotte helped her upstairs and got Iris’s car keys and drove her to an ER and sat with her until a doctor told her that she had sprained her knee and, more alarming, that her heart was weak. “What?” Iris said. Charlotte sank against the wall.
“You can’t be serious,” Iris said.
“It’s minor,” he said. “You just want to take care of yourself.” He gave her a sheaf of papers about what to eat, how to exercise, the words all swimming in front of her, and then Charlotte drove her home.
“Well, that was lucky,” Iris said.
“Your heart is weak. How is that lucky?”
“The doctor wasn’t that concerned.”
“Yes, yes, he was. And what if I hadn’t come by? Who would have known you were down there?”
“But you did come by.” Iris thought of being down in the basement, unable to get up, the humiliating bucket of urine in a corner. She rested one hand on her chest. The doctor had said it wouldn’t happen again, but what if it did?
“Your knees aren’t great. How much longer can you walk up and down these stairs? And what if your heart gets weaker? You can’t live like this anymore.” Charlotte looked the same way she had when she was ten years old and had been playing submarine in the bathtub, dunking her head underwater, and broke her front tooth. She was scared, Iris knew that, and maybe Iris was a little frightened, too. She was never short of breath. Her heart never galloped enough to wake her at night. She used to swim for miles. She used to travel. She used to do the crossword puzzle in ink and parade around Crane Beach in a daring maillot. Sure, she needed some help now for some things, but so what? And what was the alternative?
She had friends who lived with their adult children, but Charlotte was a college student. Her life was just getting started. How could Iris ask her to rewind? She knew a woman who had someone come in and check on her every day, but Iris kept thinking how annoying that would be, as if you were a child and couldn’t be trusted in your own home. Plus, that would get expensive fast.
Charlotte hesitated. “Maybe . . . maybe you could move into one of those new retirement communities.”
“Are you crazy? Why would I want to do that?”
“You’d be safe there. There would be other people, too.”
“No. Absolutely not. I’m not leaving my house. And what if Lucy comes home and she finds the house empty?”
“If she does, she’s smart enough to ask the neighbors. And she knows I’m at Brandeis. She can find me there. We’ll make sure they all know where you are.”
“And where will that be?”
“Are you listening to me?” Charlotte said. “You can’t live like this. It scares me.”
A WEEK LATER, Charlotte showed up with brochures for special housing for the elderly. Charlotte had made appointments for them to go and look at three establishments. “Excuse me, housing for old people?” Iris said. Iris had heard of the communities springing up in Florida. She had seen the photos, a bunch of white-haired folks lining a pool, the women wearing bathing caps with flowers blooming on them, the men kicking their legs in the water. There were photos of old people dancing the samba with their hips cocked like weapons and sitting around a dining room table with forks raised in approval over what looked like steak on their plates. But it seemed so silly to her, so ridiculous. What would she have in common with these people?
“We’ll go visit. We’ll just check it out,” Charlotte told her.
“What about you?” Iris asked. “What about holidays and summers? Where will you live?”
“I’ll find a sublet near school. I already heard of one place.”
Iris stiffened. “What?’ she said. “What?”
“I saved money from my job, the one I used to have,” Charlotte said. “Enough for three months—”
“I’ll pay for it—” Iris said, but Charlotte shook her head. “No, I’ve got it,” Charlotte said, and she didn’t seem to see just how bereft, how useless, that made Iris feel.
IRIS WENT WITH Charlotte to the appointments. All three places made Iris feel physically ill.
The names were so wretched: Luxury Acres, Beaumont Fields. Couldn’t they have thought of something better than that? The first one, Luxury Acres, looked like a brick apartment building, with a doorman who smiled too much and a lobby full of people. At first it seemed fine to her, until she saw how some of the people just sat there, their mouths open like mail slots. Others stumbled when they walked, and a few stared at Iris and Charlotte hungrily, as if they never had company. “This place has a smell,” she whispered to Charlotte. “Like baked ham.”
“Not like you at all,” Charlotte said.“You smell like honey. Except for that time you stepped in vomit on the street. You didn’t smell so great then.”
Iris laughed. “Then I guess ham is an improvement.”
The second place, in Belmont, was a little nicer, with light streaming through the big picture windows. A pleasant young man who introduced himself as Ron took them around, pattering a commentary. Each of the five floors had a community room with a TV and music, and there was a big, noisy dining room. The people didn’t look so terribly old to her. There wasn’t that ham smell. In one of the rooms, a klatch of women were laughing over a game of cards. “You play?” one woman called out to Iris. In another room a man was playing pool, and he winked when he saw Iris. “You see?” Ron said to Iris. “You’re already making an impression.”
“This is nice, right?” Charlotte said, but Iris wasn’t so sure. There was something disquieting about being in a place that shouted, This is the last place you will ever live. What was it someone had said to her once? Bloom where you’re planted. But what if the soil was depleted?
“Let’s go,” she said to Charlotte.
Cruel Beautiful World Page 13
