by Laura Alden
We’d met almost two years ago while he was cleaning a murder scene, and, last year after his sister had moved to Rynwood with her seven-year-old daughter, Alison, we’d started running into each other more often. Even more so this spring when Oliver and Alison had played on the same soccer team.
Pete was one of those friendly guys who didn’t seem to have a worry in world. Standing on the soccer sidelines one day, I’d tried to get him to admit to at least one worry, but the only thing he came up with was a mild concern about the way his milk had smelled that morning.
His typical stance was a round-shouldered comfortable slouch, hands in pockets, smile on his face. Just looking at him made my neck lose a few degrees of tension. Medium height, balding, and cheerful as a chickadee, Pete was one of those people who made you feel good just by walking into the room. No, Pete wouldn’t take offense at my non-wave. He’d probably already forgotten about the whole thing.
I turned left onto the road that went around the park. My hair blew back from my face as I rode, feet spinning, legs pumping, knees going up and coming down, up and down. The rhythm was soothing, in a hard work sort of way, and it was easy to think of absolutely nothing at all. Easy to be nothing, easy to do nothing except be.
With my mind clear of pretty much everything except the pleasures of the season, it was inevitable that I zipped right past Amy’s driveway.
Halfway up the block, I woke up to where I was, braked hard, turned in a wide arc, and went back to where’d I just been, scolding myself mildly for being such a moron. Though, as I approached the driveway, I realized I was being too hard on myself.
Not even a month since Amy had died, and already her mark on the earth was disappearing. The rains of spring had sent the uncut grass knee high. The shrubs had taken on an untended look. Even the trees looked shaggy.
Technically, this wasn’t much different from the way Amy’s driveway normally looked, but it didn’t . . . well, it didn’t smell right. Not that anything smelled bad. Not that there was any smell at all other than the overwhelming scent of spring. No, what I sensed was that something was wrong.
Halfway up the steep drive, my thighs decided they’d had enough. I swung off the bike, put one hand on the handlebars, the other on the seat, and pushed it up the hill, thinking.
It wasn’t the raggedy grass that was different. Couldn’t be. Raggedy and unkempt was Amy’s favorite landscaping style. I’d often wondered, but never asked, how she avoided citations for violating the town’s lawn ordinance. And now I’d never know.
I kept on up the hill, still trying to pinpoint what was different. It wasn’t the closed curtains behind the diamond-paned windows. Amy always had them closed during the day, opening them only at night, the reverse of the rest of the world. And it wasn’t the absence of a car, since Amy didn’t have one. What, then? What was shrieking at me, telling me that something was wrong, that something was . . .
I stopped. The bicycle stopped. My breathing stopped. Tears touched the corners of my eyes and I stood there, staring.
The bird feeders. They were empty.
A light breeze caught at the back of my neck and sent the feeders to swaying. Back and forth, back and forth.
I watched them for a while, thinking sad thoughts about life and death and lost opportunities and things not done and all the roads not taken.
The breeze fell away, touching my cheek with its last breath. I leaned the bike against the peeling white paint of the ancient detached one car garage and shrugged off the backpack. Inside were the bare minimum: keys, wallet, checkbook, comb, cell phone, pens, and a brand-new spiral bound notebook. I zipped it open, reached down into the depths for my favorite pen and—
“Hello, there.”
I shrieked and dropped everything.
“Sorry about that,” said a male voice.
Rustling leaves gave me a clue to his whereabouts. I turned and saw a small face peering out of a lilac bush.
“You’re that book lady. No, don’t tell me, I never forget a name. Meg. Yep, that’s it. Meg . . . Murphy? Kavanagh? O’Neill!” he said triumphantly.
“Beth Kennedy,” I said apologetically. “You were close.”
The elf spread the branches and walked through. “Bet you don’t remember my name, do you? Hah, you don’t!”
Thurman Schroeder. Smiling, I shook my head.
“That’s what made me such a success in car sales, you know. People remember the people who remember their names.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Of course I am!” He walked close and looked up at me. “You know Amy’s dead, don’t you? Died last spring.”
“She . . . did?”
“Or was it last winter?” He frowned, and his eyes went vague. “Meg, did you say your name was?” His right hand reached out, halfway to a handshake, halfway to a plea for help.
“Thurman?” A woman crashed through the bushes. “Thurman? Oh, there you are!” She stood, panting, with her hand flat against the base of her throat. “Goodness, you scared me!” Her hair, curled tight to her head, was whiter than a fresh snowfall.
“Sweets,” he said, “this is Meg Murphy. Meg, this is my wife . . .” The eyes went blank and his hands started to tremble. “My wife . . .”
“Nice to meet you,” I said quickly. “My name is—” Stepping closer to the woman, I lowered my voice. “I’m Beth Kennedy.”
The woman took Thurman’s hand in hers. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lillian Schroeder.”
“Lillian,” he murmured. “My wife.”
“That’s right, honey. I’m your wife. Lillian.”
He nodded. “Lillian. Wife.” He started whistling a tune that sounded almost familiar. I tried to follow the melody, but he lost the thread and it turned into an aimless humming.
Lillian watched him. “This morning was so good,” she said quietly. “I tried to get him to take a nap after lunch, but he said he wanted to sit on the patio.” The strain of caretaking showed in the lines around her mouth. “He seemed happy enough with the newspaper. I turned my back for just a minute—a minute!—and he was gone.”
“Who’s gone?” Thurman snapped to attention.
“No one,” Lillian soothed. “Everyone is where they should be.”
“Shipshape?” he asked.
“And seaworthy.” She smiled, but it was a smile that could break your heart.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Anchors aweigh!”
“Anchors aweigh,” she said softly. To me, she said, “We used to have a sailboat. For years we spent all our weekends on Lake Michigan. But I had to sell it last summer. He . . . we just couldn’t do it any longer.”
I nodded. And wanted to cry.
“Well.” Lillian stood tall, making the top of her head come almost level with my shoulder. “Beth Kennedy. You own the Children’s Bookshelf. I’ve been in there a few times, buying books for our grandchildren.” She glanced at Thurman. “That new girl, Yvonne. She’s very . . . understanding.”
“I’m glad she could help.”
“You used to deliver books to Amy,” Lillian said. Thurman started to walk away, but she tugged him back to her side. “Just a minute more, honey.”
I saw her question coming and hunted around for an explanation of my presence. Couldn’t come up with a very good one. Decided that telling the truth was the only real possibility.
I stooped to pick up my dropped pen and notebook. “Amy’s death has been bothering me. So—”
“You’re going to journal about it?” Lillian nodded in an approving way. “That’s an excellent idea. My pastor recommended journaling as a way to deal with . . . with my situation. All I have to do is remember to burn it before I die.” She laughed. “If any of the children get hold of it my image would be shattered.”
Without thinking, I said, “Not possible. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever met to a saint.”
She smiled. “Aren’t you a sweetheart? But you don’t know what I’m like
inside.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Some days are harder than others.”
“Have you . . .” Then I stopped. How could I offer up advice to this woman? She didn’t need someone half her age giving her options about dealing with her beloved husband. She was clearly smart and savvy; she’d have long ago investigated the facilities at Sunny Rest.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “We’ll be fine. As long as Thurman’s happy, I’m happy, and for now he’s happy here at home.”
Thurman started humming “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.” Lillian stroked his hand and hummed along with him. I swallowed, not quite sure why I was so sad. They weren’t, so why did I have the urge to throw my arms around the both of them and bawl my eyes red?
“Um,” I said. “Is it okay to sit here a while?” I gestured at Amy’s backyard, hefting my notebook. “It’s a little weird, I know, but . . .”
Lillian took up the slack I’d offered. “But you feel close to Amy,” she said. “Makes perfect sense. And I suppose it’s all right if you spend some time here.” She looked at the house, frowning. “I have no idea what’s going to happen. Her parents are long gone, of course. This was the house she grew up in, you know, and she was an only child. I suppose she must have some other relatives, but I’m afraid I really don’t know.”
Thurman’s face lost its formless look. “Miss Amy had a first cousin on her mom’s side. He lives in Montana. No idea what he does for living. Sells ice to Eskimos for all I know.” He grinned.
The elf was back, and the smile on Lillian’s face was wide and deep. “Takes coals to Newcastle.”
“Furnaces to Hawaii.” He took her hand and twirled her in a circle.
“Potatoes to Idaho,” she called, midspin.
“Baked beans to Boston.” He pulled her close and took the lead in their waltz. Around the yard they went, laughing like young lovers, calling out phrases that got more and more ridiculous.
“Cable cars to San Francisco.”
“Arches to Saint Louis.”
“Wind to Chicago.”
They ducked back through the lilacs, and were gone.
I waited until I heard nothing save the wind in the trees. Then I opened the notebook and started writing.
Chapter 8
By the middle of the following week, I’d filled a dozen pages with bits and pieces of Amy’s life. I started with the scraps that I knew and the few things the Schroeders had told me and moved on to my normal sources. Each person told me something new, and each thing went down in the notebook.
“Amy? That poor girl.” Flossie Untermayer, running the local grocery store at age eighty-one and looking perfectly capable of running it for another eighty years, slid her pencil into the clipboard she carried everywhere. “Amy left town the day after high school graduation and didn’t come back for years. Not until her dad got too sick to take care of her mom.”
“I heard she was an only child.”
“Did caretaking for both parents until her mom died, then watched over her dad. Every time I delivered groceries I told her to get some help.” Flossie lifted her shoulder expressively, conveying in that one gesture sympathy, regret, empathy, and a small bit of irritation.
Clearly, her years as a professional ballet dancer had given her more than just a career. All my single year of ballet lessons had given me was an inferiority complex because I couldn’t figure out the difference between fourth and fifth positions. When I kept asking about a sixth position, the instructor had a long talk with my mother and the next fall I started swim lessons. Flossie had told me that in some schools of ballet thought, there is a sixth position. One of these days I’d have to tell my mother.
“But Amy said she didn’t want help.” Flossie’s mouth made a tight, frowning movement. “And what can you do then?”
My hair stylist, Denise, said she’d cut Amy’s hair before Amy left town. “After she came back I don’t think she cut her hair.” Denise chopped at her waist with her flat palm. “Last time I saw her it was down to here. Not a good look for most women, you know?”
What no one seemed to know was how Amy made ends meet. And no one knew what she’d done in those years she’d lived away. No one even knew for certain where she’d lived. Some said the East Coast, some said the West, some said down south. Over the phone, Marina had guessed Venice, but when I pinned her down, she confessed she’d made the guess in hopes that we’d travel there to investigate.
“So you don’t have any reason to think Amy lived in Venice?” I’d asked.
“Everyone wants to live there,” Marina said. “It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world. She must have visited, at least. We can go and check hotel registers. We can take her picture to all the cafés. We can stop at the Doge’s Palace and interview the docents.”
She rattled on for a while without any response from me. Finally, she stopped. “We’re not going to Venice, are we?” she’d asked sadly.
“Not this year,” I’d said, and hung up before she started fantasizing about next summer.
“May I ask?” Paoze indicated my notebook.
For the moment, we were the only two people in the store. It was the post-lunch lull, and Lois and Yvonne were out getting something to eat. When they’d first started lunching together I’d spent a fair amount of time staring out the front windows, my index finger over my lips, wondering what tall tales Lois was telling Yvonne. Stories about Wisconsin winters. Stories about Paul Bunyan. Stories about cheese. About the Green Bay Packers.
Any of those stories could turn Yvonne against the fair state of Wisconsin. There wasn’t anything or anyone to keep her here, after all. Scare her too much and she’d be gone.
But every time they came back from lunch, Yvonne would give me an oversized wink, so I’d eventually stopped worrying.
I smiled at Paoze. “Of course you may ask. I’m starting a sort of a journal.”
“This is a good thing.” He nodded. “In my literature classes, the professors say many authors begin by a journal. I have a journal for three years.”
“It’s more like, um, therapy for me.” Not exactly a lie. “Have you started writing that book of your family’s history? If you haven’t—”
The phone rang. Paoze’s reactions were younger and faster, so he was first to reach the receiver. “Good afternoon, Children’s Bookshelf. How may I help you?” His eyes slewed over to me. “Hello, Mrs. Wolff. Let me see if Mrs. Kennedy is available.”
I crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue sideways out of my mouth. Not very adult, but Paoze had witnessed too many Claudia scenes to believe that I’d be happy to talk to her. I held out my hand for the phone and, grinning almost Lois-like, Paoze passed it over.
I forced my face into a semblance of a smile. “Hi, Claudia, what’s up?”
“PTA phone conference. Tonight. Seven o’clock.”
“Tonight? Okay, but what’s the—”
Click.
“Hello?” But I heard nothing save the faint humming of a half-open phone line. She’d hung up on me. Really, truly, hung up on me. Even in the dark days when Richard and I were on the verge of separation, we’d been scrupulously polite to each other.
“Can’t say I care for it.” I handed the receiver back to Paoze.
“There is something you don’t like?”
“Pea soup,” I said, and was rewarded by his wide smile. White teeth against brown skin. Big brown eyes and black wavy hair. The kid was a heartbreak waiting to happen. He seemed to have no clue how attractive he was, though, which only added to his appeal.
“Cottage cheese,” Paoze said. “I do not find it likeable.”
“Just like Claudia Wolff,” I muttered.
Paoze’s grin flashed bright. “She is difficult,” he said, then his grin faded out of view. “But there are friends for her.”
Tina the Terrible, as Marina would say. And CeeCee Daniels, and Cindy Irving, and a host of others. “What are they seeing in her that I don’t?” I asked.
“Maybe she is similar to pea soup,” he said.
“Um . . .”
“Yes, very like pea soup, I think. To you, pea soup is not something you like, but other people do like. Are there things in pea soup that you care for?”
“I like ham,” I said cautiously. “And carrots.”
“So the main ingredient is what you do not like. Peas. But other people like peas very much.” He pointed at himself. “The main ingredient in Mrs. Wolff, herself, is what you do not like. But other people like her.”
The clock above our heads ticked time away as I thought about what he’d said. Finally, I asked, “But how does that help?” Because in forty-one years of living, I still hadn’t learned to like pea soup. It was one of the few foods that made my gag reflex take over. I couldn’t even stand the smell of it. Once, when eating at the Green Tractor, four people in the booth behind me all ordered the mushy green stuff. I’d had to box up my lunch to go.
Paoze shrugged. “I do not think it does help,” he said. “But the analogy is interesting, yes?”
I looked at him a little sourly. “You are an English major. You probably dream in similes and metaphors.”
“Themes and plots,” he said, nodding. “And symbolism. We are reading now about green lights at the end of a pier.”
He went off into a description of The Great Gatsby, complete with sweeping arm gestures and widened eyes. I half listened, the rest of me split between wondering about the upcoming PTA call and wondering what F. Scott Fitzgerald would have written about Amy.
* * *
“Where’s your list?” Marina was examining Oliver’s unlikely sketch of George the cat and Spot the dog sitting next to each other with smiles on their furry faces. “You must have one, don’t tell me you don’t.”
It had been such a warm afternoon that Marina had taken her day care kids to a local petting zoo after school. Afterward, she’d dropped them off at their respective homes, and my house was last on her route.
