I suppose she’s right, again. Our lives intersect with some, collide with others. And sometimes we are saved by the grace of the accidental.
Among the collection of objects is a recent acquisition: a concrete cherub head. Another gift, in its way, from Daintry O’Connor.
Ceel was right, too. Every woman has a Daintry. It matters not the size of the town, or the house, or the circumstances of rich or poor. Delve deeply enough and you’ll find her somewhere. Stuck in a drawer, perhaps, though there’s no actual evidence. Moreover, this woman will be hard-pressed to define exactly what it was about her particular Daintry. She knows things. She has things. She’s gifted, blessed, endowed. She looms large and vital, invincible and untouchable. She’s the one who pulls you through and pushes you away. She allows you access, then seals the entry. She feathers the nest, then shoves you from it. Every woman has one, and you love her all the same. Mine lived across the street.
Items litter the desktop. Things, only. As we get older we discard objects that no longer have significance. Out goes the threadbare baby blanket or stuffed sheep smelling of spit. The lanyard from summer camp draped over the mirror is tossed a season later without a thought. The unfinished needlepoint belt labored over for a boyfriend. The wedding gift pair of silver candlesticks consigned to tarnish and attic. So that the things we choose to keep are a tangible lament for something lost.
One by one I put each article in a trash bag. The teeth, the wood, the lists. And the little book of quotes. To go.
We discard people as well. But do we discard them because they no longer have significance in our lives or because they’re no longer comfortable, remind us of someone we were but no longer want to be? You can’t keep a person. There’s no adhesive strong enough or flexible enough to hold a psyche, a personality. You can’t crate and tape it, label and store it. Because people change.
The angel head stays, a keeper. I might need it one day. It’ll make a fine baby present for Ceel.
Ellen pirouettes through the room, the sand-art pendant thumping against her chest. “Are you having a clean-out?” she asks. Ellen loves clean-outs. There’s always the possibility she’ll come away with treasure. She peers into the bag, sticks her arm inside, and pulls out the chewing gum chain. “Wow. It’s as long as the room! Is it yours?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Whose is it?”
“Someone I used to know.”
“Are you throwing it away? Can I have it?”
“If you want.”
“Cool.”
“El, how’d you like to have this desk for your new room in Hickory? We’ll paint it, fix it up.”
“Purple? Can it be purple?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Awesome.”
“Do you know any other adjectives besides cool and awesome?”
“You’re not going to make me get the dictionary, are you?”
“No, but you have to promise me something.” Tit for tat. Even steven. “If I give you the desk, you can’t grow up and away from me.”
“I don’t want to grow up at all,” she says. The clunky digital watch on her wrist emits faint electronic beeps, and she kisses it.
“Why’d you do that?”
“It’s three thirty-three,” she says. “You kiss it for luck when the same numbers are all the way across. I set the alarm so I won’t miss it. You don’t know about stuff like that,” she says with matter-of-fact assurance.
But I do. I knew about picking up our feet over railroad tracks and holding our breath when we passed a cemetery and not stepping on sidewalk cracks and crossing our fingers and touching the car ceiling when we passed beneath a yellow light. I knew that three sneezes equaled a wish and putting your ring around the candle on a birthday cake made certain our wishes came true.
“You know Daintry?” Peter had said to me that August night, the brink of fall, the beginning of the end.
“So you knew Daintry O’Connor growing up?” Hal too had asked.
Forever, I could have said to Peter. I hardly know her, I could have answered Hal.
Ellen twirls a tiny dial, resetting the alarm. Daintry had a watch with interchangeable colored rims. “How did you get so wise to be so young?” I ask her.
“What are you talking about?”
I take my daughter’s hand, kiss the soft pulsing inside of her watchbanded wrist. “I don’t know.”
“Hunh,” she teases. “I thought you knew everything.”
Don’t you know anything, Hannah? “I thought I did, too.”
“Dad,” she calls, bolting away. “Guess what Mom gave me!”
Oh, Daintry, I think, and close the drawer. I’ll miss you so.
Even Now Page 23
