Patricia Rockwell - Essie Cobb 04 - Ghosted

by Patricia Rockwell

  “And over forty panties!” added Pru. “How much underwear do you need? You surely don’t wear all of this. Most of it’s new. The tags have never been removed.”

  “And besides,” added Claudia. “Pru and I do your laundry every week, and I know I’ve never seen most of this underwear. So, I know you don’t wear most of it!”

  “Maybe it doesn’t fit,” suggested Essie.

  “Then give it away!” said Pru, “and clear out some space in your drawers! Mom, if we had this much junk in our drawers and closets when we were kids, you would have killed us!”

  “Don’t be silly, girls!” said Essie. “I would never do that.”

  “You would have surely made us clean them out,” cried Claudia.

  The boys arrived from outside and Essie motioned to her daughters to cease the discussion about underwear.

  “Okay, guys,” said Claudia. “How is the van? Do we have any room left?” Pru had wandered back into the bedroom.

  “Plenty, Mom,” said Ned, turning and eyeing his brother Bo and his friend Dugan. “Half full, maybe?” The two younger boys nodded. Pru returned with two jewelry boxes.

  “Mom,” she declared, “why do you have two jewelry boxes?”

  “What?” asked Essie.

  “I know this one that sits on your dresser,” said Pru. “But I found this other one in your bottom dresser drawer under all that extra underwear. It’s full of jewelry too.”

  “I don’t know,” said Essie, furrowing her brow. Pru brought the boxes over to her mother and set them on the end table. Claudia reached over and opened both boxes. Inside were a variety of necklaces, brooches, earrings, and rings.

  “Some of this is beautiful, Mom,” said Claudia, bringing out a few of the necklaces and holding them up.

  “Oh, look at this lovely necklace,” cried Pru as she held up a light blue cameo surrounded in what appeared to be pearls and diamonds.

  “That’s a lot of diamonds,” said Claudia, taking the brooch from her sister and examining it.

  “It’s probably not real,” said Pru. “I mean, those are surely fake diamonds. But it is pretty. Where’d you get this, Mom?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Essie. “I believe your father gave it to me for an anniversary one year. But you know me, girls. I’m just not into jewelry all that much. You can give it away if you like.”

  “I don’t know, Pru,” said Claudia, turning to her sister. “I think for now, we should just leave these things alone. Maybe some of them are valuable. We should probably take some of these pieces and get them appraised.”

  “You’re probably right,” agreed Pru. “But that’s a task for another day. Right now, let’s just finish with clearing out Mom’s closet and all this extra clothing.”

  “Good,” said Claudia. “Plus, we’ve got her answering machine working!”

  “So, we can always leave you a message, Mom, if we need to get in touch with you,” added Pru. She gathered all the loose jewelry pieces and returned them to the two boxes and headed back into Essie’s bedroom.

  “Come on, guys!” said Claudia to the young men. “I think we’re done here. Let’s take all this stuff over and drop it off at the charity location!” Pru returned.

  “We’re out of here, Sis,” said Claudia, giving Pru a quick hug. “Bye, Mom,” she said to Essie as she motioned the boys to follow her out of Essie’s apartment. Pru gave Essie a quick kiss and trailed along behind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.”

  ––Albert Einstein

  Once the mob of family visitors had departed, Essie heaved a sigh and slurped the final few gulps from the bottom of the strawberry milkshake. She felt as if she’d run some sort of race; she was so exhausted. It didn’t make sense because for the last few hours, she’d done nothing more than sit in her recliner and direct her daughters to save, donate, or trash various items from her closet. How could making decisions be so tiring? She closed her eyes. She envisioned some of the things that Claudia and Pru had found in the depths of her closet. That beautiful cocktail dress, still in its dry cleaning bag. She remembered the one and only time she ever wore the lovely gown.

  Funny, she hadn’t thought about that evening in ages. It was the night that John had been made Vice President at the bank. He was so proud, and she was excited for him. Claudia and Pru were right about the neckline on the dress; it was very low cut. She could almost see John’s face when she came out of the bedroom wearing it for the first time. He was sitting on the sofa, dressed in his tuxedo. He hated fancy occasions as much as she did, but, oh my, he did look wonderful in his outfit. He always was so trim—never an ounce of fat on him. Essie remembered how she’d walked into their living room, feeling just a bit embarrassed that the dress exposed her breasts too much. Would John be shocked? She needn’t have worried. When he saw her, and when she saw his face, she knew how he felt. There was no scandal in his countenance. His eyes were twinkling as he looked her over from top to bottom. She remembered standing in the middle of the living room. John gestured for her to turn around which she did slowly so he could enjoy the dress from all angles. The design of the bodice was just perfect; it made her waist appear so small in contrast to her bosom which peeked delicately from the sweetheart neckline.

  Essie sighed as the memory overtook her. She smiled. The necklace with the cameo. That’s the night John had given it to her. The night he became Vice President. When she wore that beautiful dress. Why had she forgotten that lovely memory for all these years?

  She sat up abruptly.

  Now she remembered why. That night was also the night that John had suffered his first heart attack. Oh, it wasn’t fatal. In fact, John’s cardiologist had actually said that the small episode he’d experienced—he’d called it an ‘episode’—was probably a good thing because it had alerted them to the fact that John had an underlying heart condition. But that was the night that started it all, as Essie now recalled. Years went by after that. John had several more ‘episodes’ and several major heart attacks. He recuperated from most. He recuperated from five or six small and two large heart attacks. At least, the doctors said he’d recuperated.

  With each ‘recuperation,’ her husband had become weaker and frailer. Oh, of course, he never complained or told Essie that he felt weak, but she could see it in his behavior. She didn’t push John to talk about how he felt; John was simply not much of a talker. He was always more of a doer. As was she. When her husband was upset, you could find him out in their garage tweaking one of his old cars. Essie knew it was therapy, just like working in her garden was therapy for her. Neither of them needed some psychiatrist sitting across from them with poised pen to “get to the bottom of things.”

  Essie’s mind cleared. The image of herself in her beautiful dress wearing the delicate diamond-encrusted cameo necklace faded. The only thing she could see now was her husband’s dear face smiling at her. She couldn’t remember any of his clothes or possessions. She couldn’t remember any of her clothes or her jewelry or her possessions. A sense of serene contentment rolled over Essie like a wave as she rested in her recliner. The thought of her empty closet didn’t bother her. Her eyes popped open with a snap and she realized that it was a bright, beautiful Saturday afternoon. She reached over to her end table for her clipboard. Her new answering machine device was standing guard of her telephone, ready to protect her from any fearful, incoming calls.

  “I forgot about that dress and that necklace,” she said to herself. “Now, I remember that night. I remember it so well; it’s strange. John loved that dress. And that cameo! It’s as if he knew I’d bought the dress and he picked out that necklace just to match it.” She smiled and felt a warmth course through her body. “What a nice memory. Probably from all this closet cleaning. Seeing all these old things—dresses, jewelry. They all bring up old memories. It’s especially nice when you recall a memory that
you’d forgotten for so long.”

  Suddenly the telephone rang. Essie glanced over and hesitated. Was she supposed to answer the phone as she usually did? Or was she supposed to let the answering machine answer first? Oh, gracious gourds! What’s the routine? She had forgotten already and now if she did something wrong, her daughters would probably get mad. The phone rang a second time. Should she answer or let the machine answer? If she let the machine answer, she’d better leave her apartment or how would she explain her absence? She pushed forward in her chair and started to rise from her recliner. Grabbing her walker, she headed for her front door which she reached just as the machine clicked and the answering machine rattled off the welcome message.

  Essie was torn. Should she return and pick up the phone and greet her caller like a proper person would do, or should she just go on out her door and let the machine record her caller’s message? As she was waffling, the welcome message featuring Essie’s own voice finished and the click sounded indicating the start of the caller’s message. The caller didn’t speak. After a few seconds, another click sounded and the answering machine clicked off. Essie was confused. Ned hadn’t told her what to do if the machine failed to record a message. What if it was Claudia or Pru and they were unable to record the message? Thundering thunderbolts! A predicament. Stupid answering machine. Before, she wouldn’t even be aware that anyone had called her; now she knew someone had called her and had been unable to record their message.

  With great annoyance, Essie rolled back to her chair and plopped down. She reached over the answering machine and picked up a business card that Ned had left for her. “Just call me at this number, Grandma,” he’d said, “if you have any problems with the machine.” Well, as far as she was concerned, she had a problem. The wonderful machine didn’t appear to be working. Callers couldn’t leave their messages! What good was it? She lifted her receiver and tapped in the digits for Ned’s business number. The young man worked for a local computer firm and was frequently on call for clients who had computer problems. Ned answered immediately.

  “Hi, Gram!” said the cheerful young man. “Don’t tell me your new answering machine is broken already!”

  “Ned!” said Essie into the phone, “how did you know it was me?”

  “Caller ID,” replied Ned, much to Essie’s consternation. “Anyway, Gram, what’s wrong?”

  “This machine, Ned,” explained Essie. “Someone called me as…as…I was walking out the door, and I heard the welcome message. You know, the one of me saying—”

  “Yes, Gram, I know it,” he said.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “when it finished, I heard the click and then…nothing. I’m afraid it’s broken. The person who called must have tried to record a message but couldn’t.” She was trying to not sound upset which was definitely how she was feeling.

  “Oh, no!” said Ned, chuckling. “All that means is that the person who called just didn’t leave a message!”

  “Why would they do that?” asked Essie. “Why would they call me and not leave a message?”

  “Most obvious reason, Gram,” explained Ned, “is that it’s probably a salesperson. They usually don’t leave messages.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if they did, would you call them back?”

  “Oh,” said Essie. “I think I see.”

  “That’s just one more of the benefits of the answering machine,” noted Ned. “It allows you to screen your calls.”

  “You mean,” said Essie. “I can listen to the messages and only respond to the ones I want.”

  “Absolutely!” said Ned. “Most people do that!”

  “Really?” said Essie incredulously.

  “Really,” agreed Ned. “Most sales people know better than to leave messages. They know people won’t call them back. They’ll just call again and try to get you when you’re there.”

  “I do get a lot of sales calls,” said Essie. “Mostly from people trying to sell me headstones and life insurance. Seems like they’re working at cross purposes.”

  “There you go!”

  The two chatted for a few more minutes and when Essie had concluded her call, she sat smugly in her recliner with a new appreciation of her new recording device. The phone at that moment rang out again. Essie remained seated and allowed the machine to do its thing. The welcome message played and, again, as in the previous call, the caller refused or neglected to provide a message.

  “Take that, salesman!” said Essie to the machine.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The most important sense to investigate the psychic sense is common sense.”

  ––William Roll

  “Essie, where have you been all day?” asked Marjorie at dinner later that night.

  “I was here,” responded Essie, thoroughly invested in her chicken pot pie. “This is the best chicken pie that Cook has ever made.” She scraped the bottom of the handled bowl and licked the sauce with gusto.

  “I didn’t see you,” added Opal, eating her pie with less enthusiasm and much more delicacy.

  “Fay likes it too,” said Essie, smiling across the table at their not-so-talkative friend who was also determined to get the last small bit from the bottom of the pot pie bowl. Fay perked up at the mention of her name and gave Essie a short grin.

  “Did you go out again with your daughters?” asked Marjorie, sipping her coffee, leaning back in her chair.

  “What?” repeated Essie, glancing over at Marjorie. “My daughters? Oh, no! I didn’t go out with them. That was last night. But they were here today cleaning my closets. We had fast food.”

  “That sounds like fun,” said Opal in a somber, deadpan voice.

  “It actually turned out better than I expected,” said Essie, pulling her own coffee cup closer and adding cream from a small paper container. “I just sat there and my daughters had a whole troupe of people in to clean me out.”

  “A whole troupe?” asked Opal, neatly bringing her cup to her lips in a delicate smirk. “Like a circus?”

  “Oh, Opal,” said Essie, “of course not! They brought two of my grandsons and one of their friends. You should see my closet now! It’s almost empty!”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Marjorie. “What are you going to wear?”

  “The same things I usually do,” replied Essie, looking down at her favorite polyester top. “Like this blouse. It’s something I always wear.”

  “Several times a week,” noted Marjorie, one eyebrow raised.

  “What does that mean, Marjorie?” asked Essie. “I wear clean clothes. I never wear a top two days in a row or trousers more than…well, not too often.”

  “That’s all right, Essie,” said Marjorie sweetly. “Your wardrobe is one of convenience rather than style, I’ve always said.”

  “Purple potboilers, Marjorie!” cried Essie. “Why would I need to be stylish at Happy Haven? I’m a ninety-year-old woman. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

  “That’s true,” added Opal, nodding.

  “Not even Felix Federico?” asked Marjorie.

  “You’re the one who’s gaga over him,” said Essie, poking her finger at Marjorie’s coffee cup.

  “Careful!” cried her friend. “You’ll spill it!” Marjorie set down her cup and straightened her sweater. This mannerism, thought Essie, was designed more to call attention to Marjorie’s still very nice bust line than to smooth out any wrinkles in her clothing.

  “Speaking of gaga,” said Opal, obviously in an attempt to change topics before her two friends came to blows, “have either of you found out who that new resident is? The one with the nice mustache who told that story last night?”

  “You mean Marjorie hasn’t tracked him down yet?” said Essie, still peeved. “I figured she’d be knocking on doors in all the wings until she found him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Essie,” said Marjorie, fluffing her curls around her face. “I don’t need to chase after men. They chase after me.”

 
“Of course they do,” replied Essie, rolling her eyes.

  “Probably because I don’t wear the same outfit every day,” she added.

  “Really, Marjorie,” said Opal, “you’re just asking for trouble. “Now, Essie, you said your daughters cleaned out your closet. Did you go through all of the items you had? I mean, our closets are quite large.”

  “They are,” agreed Marjorie. “It’s one of the best parts of our apartments. I can fit so many clothes in mine and I still have lots of storage space at the back.”

  “We went through everything. I couldn’t believe all of the stuff I had. So much of it was stuff I had no idea what it was. I actually had almost two dozen brassieres. Can you believe?”

  “I have that many if not more,” said Marjorie. “I have some for sweaters, some for backless gowns, some black, some white. I mean, a girl needs a whole variety of bras.”

  “Maybe you do, Marjorie,” said Essie, “after all, you probably need a different bra for each man you have your eyes on. But for me, one, maybe two are plenty.”

  “So what did you do with your left-over bras?” asked Opal pleasantly.

  “I didn’t save them for Marjorie!” cried Essie, slamming her hands down on the table so hard the coffee in all the cups jumped.

  “They wouldn’t fit!” replied the feisty redhead next to her. She jutted out her bosom dramatically. “I’m sure your bras would be far too small for me, Essie!”

  “Marjorie!” chided Opal, her hand on Marjorie’s arm.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Opal. She doesn’t bother me,” said Essie. “I don’t care about having big…uh, boobs. My daughters packed up all the things I didn’t need and my grandsons took it all over and gave it to charity.”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Opal, obviously relieved to have the discussion back on pleasant terms.

  “Oh!” added Essie. “And they got me an answering machine.”

  “I have one of those,” said Marjorie in a mocking voice.