The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  “The priest called up from the church to tell me she fell down there, and the paramedics said she broke her hip and cut her cheek on the pew as she went down.

  “It hurts to be a doctor and to have taken that at face value. I never thought that it wasn’t the fall that broke the hip. It was the hip that broke and caused her to fall. She had bone cancer and we all missed it for almost four years. I pledged ‘first, do no harm.’ Well, I never harmed her, but missing that diagnosis still feels like I did. Only real regret of my life, really.

  “I’ve seen a lot of people die, in war, in my practice. I’ve never seen anyone so peaceful about it. Her cousin, Jan, you met her the other night at the harvest. Jan was kicking and screaming and angry at the Lord to be losing Joan. Not Joan. She was at peace from the moment she was diagnosed. Now don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t hurrying off this Earth, but she felt God had a plan. At the end, when the pain got bad, I told her I could up the morphine, make it go away, let her rest, let her go. She took my hand and smiled that great smile and told me that the Lord and his Mother would come for her in their own time. I envied that faith.

  “She told me she was content. She knew that her programs were going well. She liked that we had the nursing students from the community college come up and help her, check on her. She was giving of herself even then. Husband for a doctor, ‘daughter-in-law’ a nurse, and all those students. The best we did was to ease her journey. Tia took to calling us ‘death concierges.’

  “She said she was happy that Tia was well loved and productive. She said she was grateful to have had a man who so faithfully loved her for so long. I was humbled and grateful for that.

  “She sure loved Tia and CC. She’s the one who started calling her CC. How Joan picked up twenty years ago that Tia and CC were, uh, partners, eludes me. She’d insist that CC stay over when she first visited, and she insisted that Tia and CC not put up a charade. I was never sure if it was because of her faith in the Lord, or despite her relationship with the church, but she said Tia was our daughter, our only child, and there was going to be nothing that would interfere with that.

  “‘Tobias,’ she would say to me, ‘Don’t be an old man. You need to go with the flow on some things.’ That would make me laugh. Go with the flow? I hadn’t heard her, or anyone, say that in years. I’d laugh, but ‘flowing’ wasn’t easy for this old Black man to do sometimes. Having Tia and CC together was one thing that was hard for me. Don’t get me wrong. Cynthia is a good woman. I knew being a mixed couple wasn’t going to be easy, and I certainly knew that being ‘queer’ wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe the hardest part was I just knew there would be no more Thatcher babies on this land. None of it was easy, but Joan made sure it was right in the end.

  “Those last few weeks before her death we’d sit in our room and talk about our earliest days together. I knew the meaning of bittersweet in those moments. I loved talking with her about our first apartment, the colors of the walls, the dentist we rented it from—he was taking a big chance on renting to colored folk in that neighborhood. Joan and I came a long way together.

  “That last week before she died, she called her friends and said goodbye. She called Jan and said she was going to miss her. She told her that she was more than a cousin, she was a best friend. She asked Tia and CC to get her address book out and she sent a dozen people flowers and notes of thanks.

  “Then, she lost consciousness, and we watched her die.

  “Jan moved here when Joan got sick. It was a shame she was away visiting her daughter when Joan died. I imagine she will stay with us now, even with Joan gone. It’s nice to talk about Joan with her. Tia’s not really ready. I think she thinks if we don’t talk about it, we can ignore it, that the grief might go away. I don’t see that happening.”

  I move to look more closely at each of the paintings. Even with my back to Tobias I can feel him watching me.

  “So, you see Jessica. I’m trying to go with the flow now. I like the projects and this place. I like being here, close to Joan. However, this is not a place I could have anticipated or planned. I am an old man. God willing, I won’t have too long to wait before He calls me home to be with Joan again. I know a lot of things Jessica, but the most important is that the love of a good woman sustained me.

  “So, in answer to what you are to do here, I can’t say. Go with the flow. This life is not a dress rehearsal. It’s a journey and I think our job is to do it well along the way. Joan would welcome you here for whatever reason, and I do too. Take a minute and look around. If you don’t mind, don’t touch anything. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a bit.”

  I thank him and return to the paintings. Six decades of Joan look back at me. Closer now, I can see subtleties I didn’t notice before. Each has a different background that clearly is just out of focus enough so as not to distract from Joan’s image. The first portrait is set in front of the bay. The second is in front of a theater marquee of some kind. The last, in front of what appears to be a small country church. Each of the frames has a painted saying in what my Catholic grade schoolteachers called “Palmer Penmanship.” Joan’s was a perfect italic painted script. In sequence they say, “Go with the flow,” “This is not a rehearsal,” and, “To thine own self be true.”

  I jot down each of these expressions on separate pieces of paper so I can think about them later. I am awed. I feel a hush surround me. Then, as I meet her gaze in each of the portraits, I say aloud, “Hello Joan, I’m Jessica. I am so very honored to meet you.”

  I keep Tobias waiting well more than a bit.

  hamlet act 1, scene 3

  T

  he drive back to DC is a blur. I try to focus on the morning, sights, sounds, senses. Formulate questions. Connect dots. What happens instead is I just sit with the feelings and try to name them. Edgy, intrigued, eager. Uncomfortable, curious. Haunted.

  I drive, obliviously, a route I’ve taken hundreds of times. Up Rt. 4, the increased density of the urban sprawl, pick up Massachusetts Avenue, quick dogleg around the Capitol and Lafayette Park, north on 16th, left on Hobart. Home.

  The insistent Gabler greets me at the door and I scoop her up.

  “OK, cat, I’ve got a few hours before I have to teach my evening class. You deserve some attention.” We head for the window seat to sort through the mail. I toss the folder from this morning on the dining table and the three notes I made spill out. I’ll straighten them later.

  The weather has changed, dark clouds gather, temps have turned raw. The shift in daylight always alters the feel of the space in the house. I’ve never been able to describe it well, but the whole feel of the place changes in these dark, pre-dusk autumn and winter afternoons. It’s, somehow, somber. That feels about right for right now.

  “Greetings, greetings!” Roy joyously comes through the door.

  “Hey, Jes, I’m glad you’re home. I saw your car. Probably should have knocked or rung the bell. Maybe you want me to do that, maybe you don’t. Did you have a good morning? I thought I’d come by and clear off the front porch. I’m going to need the space to store the rest of the crown molding and paints. Would that be OK? I’m also going to move your bike. I want to get started on refinishing the hall and closet doors. Assume we are still set on the same colors?”

  All the while he’s in motion, moving the bike, checking which doors close smoothly and completely. Gabler hops off the window seat to great him and he scoops her up. “Hello, Beast.”

  “Roy, you exhaust me! Sit for a minute. We can go over next steps. I wasn’t really giving you my attention the other night. About the other night…”

  “Jes, it’s OK. I appreciate you sharing. I have no comment on it other than I’m sorry.” Putting Gabler down on the dining table, he says, “I left the paint chips here on the table. Can we go over them one more time?”

  He sees my three notes as he looks for the paint chips. “Is Erica reading Shakespeare’s tragedies for school?” He holds up “to t
hine own self be true.”

  In response to my quizzical look he pronounces, “Hamlet, Act one, scene three.”

  “You do impress me, Mr. Gillis—business mogul, entrepreneur, craftsman, golfer, tennis player, and Shakespearean scholar?”

  “I wish, Jes. Other than playing Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet and Laertes in Hamlet, I’ve never read or seen any Shakespeare. My mother used to say it all the time, ‘to thine own self be true.’ She always told us the words were from the Bible. She was wrong, but people are always mistaking quotes that we use as from the Bible. Actually, lots of them are Shakespeare’s.

  “The quote is from such a cool scene in the play, it really stands out. Polonius is known for his long-winded speeches. His son, Laertes, me in the play, is trying to get away from his father and escape to Paris. Polonius just can’t help himself. He wants to give some parting advice to his son. Typical of kids, Laertes has no patience for him.”

  Roy strikes an authoritarian and ominous pose.

  “Polonius: ‘This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!’” He continues, “Laertes: ‘Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.’”

  Roy gives a sweeping bow and exits the dining room in grand Shakespearean style.

  “I’ve just added ‘actor’ to your credits, Mr. Gillis,” I call after him, laughing, delighted at his portrayal. He’s also just saved me the Google search I was about to do on the phrase. I’d heard it many times, and I had thought it was a biblical reference.

  Roy re-enters, as if on cue, and I ask, “So, what do you think Polonius was trying to say to his son? Is he talking about honesty? Lying? Some deep introspection?”

  “Well, the way my drama teacher, Mrs. Spires, explained it is that Polonius feels a sense of urgency. His son is leaving. He doesn’t know if he’ll see him again. Despite Polonius actually not being the greatest of guys, he wants to send his son off fortified with wisdom. In his leaving, Laertes carries with him the reputation of the family.

  “Polonius is certainly saying be honest in your actions and deeds. He’s also talking about being loyal to your family and yourself. Take care of yourself first. Know who you are at your core. Be true to who you are supposed to be. Live a proper life. Polonius thinks himself very wise. Like most kids, then and now, Laertes isn’t interested in listening to the message. Simple.”

  “Is it really that simple, Roy? You seem to see things so, um, straightforwardly.”

  “Most of time things are, Jes, unless we muck them up. Hey, I just came by to clear off the porch. I’ll be back to do the rest of the work later. I’ve got to get going. Um, you’re not saving those untouched Washington Posts on the porch for a special purpose, are you? Can I borrow a trash bag for some of the materials on your front porch?”

  I stand, amazed at his constant patter, and benevolently and mockingly say, “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’ Roy Gillis. Jesus Christ to the Apostles. Ha!”

  “Sorry, Jes, it’s also, actually Shakespeare, also Hamlet Act I, Scene III, and cooler still, actually Polonius. Part of one of his long-winded speeches. Ha, back at you! But I will bring you more trash bags.”

  Taking the bags from under the sink he closes the door gently. I can hear him whistling and the thwack of the still-wrapped newspapers slap against the concrete as he tosses them into the bag. Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack. No wonder Sonia had noticed them.

  There’s still time before class to make some notes. Picking up the folder, I say, “Come on Gabler, let’s go to the office.” Together we mount the stairs, she more spritely than I despite her aged legs. She meets me at the end of the hall and is already on the windowsill as I enter.

  This used to be their study room, a place to go do homework. It’s a snug room. I’ve kept the almost child-sized desk and made it my own years ago. It sits between the two tall, paint-caked window frames with glass that rattles in the wind. They open onto the roof of the little porch I told Roy about the other night. I crack open the window not blocked by the cat. The radiator has always made this room too hot. I can still hear Roy working below. Now there is the methodical swish, swish, swish as he sweeps the porch. I wouldn’t have thought of that, I would just lay the materials on the porch and cover them with plastic. Maybe, if I had any. Roy, I am sure, has already measured out and pre-cut exactly the size of protective plastic he needs, and has it on hand, and is ready to weight it down with the right materials to secure it in the wind.

  He’s pretty quaint. Interesting guy.

  Settling into my desk, I open my folder, Erica’s “empty chair” photo is still on top. I’d retrieved it from Tia, with an apology for mucking up our first visit. I lean over my desk to pin the photo to the corkboard between the windows. Talking out loud, I say to no one, “OK, I get it, Erica, Joan’s left a void. Sonia, what do you have in mind for us to do here?”

  Sitting and putting my feet on the desk, leaning back, “Joan, is there a story untold here? Is there more you want said?” I open my tablet and begin notes. Night comes so early at this time of year. Even after all this time, it stuns me—4:30 and pitch dark in DC in winter. Sarasota, not till after six. Realizing that if I don’t leave now I’ll be late for class, I jot one last note. Figure out the beginning, then, go with the flow.

  Getting ready to leave, I notice my bike has been removed from the front hallway. Roy’s taken all the materials previously draped across it and placed them, nicely folded, on the stairs, with the basket contents placed on top. Locking up, it’s evident that Roy has the porch perfectly neat, a perfectly precise tarp is covering the molding supplies, and the recycling bins are missing. I’m sure he’s found a place for them, I think, as I rush to car.

  At the first red light I text Sonia, “Awkward start with Tia, but a really good day. Do you have time for a walk tomorrow? I need to figure something out.”

  Instant response, “I’m there. S.”

  e

  From: JMBarnet@google1.com

  To: TiaThatcher@TheGrange.com, CC@TheGrange.com

  CC: DrTobias@TheGrange.com, SoniaCortezphd@Martinsburgcommunitycollege.edu

  Subject: Follow Up

  7:38 PM

  Dear Tia and CC:

  Thank you both for all the time you have taken with the phone calls and emails and all the back and forth as we work at setting up my next trip to The Grange. I particularly appreciate the conference call we did with Sonia. She’s largely responsible for helping with the increased focus.

  I want to recap next steps here. Please take a look and see if I’ve got it right. I’ve also attached a draft of the oral history questions. May I ask you to give them to the others? This way, they will have time to think them over before I come down.

  Here’s what we’ve summarized:

  There are six community projects currently in the works: 1) The Yearly Harvest; 2) The Quilters; 3) The Wool Project; 4) The Mercado Mikado - (the corner store, I think you call it the M and M); 5) The link with Martinsburg Community College; 6) The new house. While these are all operational, there has not been time to document them and, we’ve agreed that there is room for some improvements.

  In addition, the sum of these projects at The Grange, and the decision to create a communal living situation, needs to be documented. In our research we haven’t been able to find any similar kind of co-op (for lack of a better word). That is significant. It might garner some national attention and might generate grants.

  You wanted to create a “to-do” list for yourselves - including a review of the various projects to see if they are appropriately set up from a business, legal, and economic perspective. You’ll need to consider if creating a nonprofit makes sense and is possible. I might be able to help here. I know a bit how nonprofits work.

  We have determined that at least some of the women think the oral histories are a good idea.

 
I will come down for a meeting and you will coordinate the times. We will start out informally, just to get a sense of things, and then I will meet individually with at least Jan to start a history, Deirdre to discuss wool, and Margaret Mary to discuss the quilts. Elizabeth will decide later if she wants to chat. Sydney has had a rough week on her chemo, and we will let her decide if she’s up to being part of any of this.

  You will check with Dr. Allison (Ali) Beck, Dean of Student Services at Martinsburg to see if she has time for me to visit with her at the community college to discuss that connection. Once you get me a time, I will check with Sonia to see if she is also available.

  It looks like we have everything covered. Tia, again, I apologize for being so wrong-footed as I started out last time. I hope this approach feels more comfortable.

  Please let me know if I’ve missed anything. Please note: I’ve copied both Sonia and Tobias on this; the latter in order that Tobias is fully in the loop and can have us change direction if he likes.

  Tobias, we are being more structured, but, I promise, we will go with the flow!

  –Jessica

  Hit [SEND].

  From: JMBarnet@google1.com

  To: ElizabethJ@TheGrange.com

  Subject: Thank you

  8:15 PM

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I wanted to drop you a quick note of thanks for your kindness the other day when I was at The Grange. It may have seemed like a small thing. You and Pavarotti walking me down the hallway to Tobias in Joan’s studio may have seemed like a small gesture, but it really got me out of an awkward situation with Tia, not to mention, eased me into Tobias. That was a big help as I get my footing around this exciting, but still vague project. I also want to thank you for the suggested questions you sent up. I think they will make a great start for interviewing the other women, AND YOU!

  As you requested, I’ve sent them on to Tia and CC without an acknowledgment that they were your suggestions, or the fact that you are the one urging me to write their stories.