The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  Tears well up in both of our eyes.

  “Tia, really? I so, so wish I had gotten to meet your mom. She left so many gifts.”

  “She sure did. Sometimes I’m not sure if the oldies are good angels or bad angels but I’m happy to have a set of other mothers. Hopefully, I’ll have years before I run out of them!”

  We both laugh out loud. I tell her Jan’s invited me back later in the week and I’ll see her then.

  On my way back to DC I call Sonia and ask if she and Erica are back on speaking terms. She tells me that she’s grounded Erica. She admits it’s probably only an excuse to keep her close to her after the scare of the other night.

  It was such a full morning it’s hard to sort out what to share with her. I tell her about Deirdre, and she confirms that everyone has noticed the confusion, but no one has mentioned it to Deirdre yet. I ask if she knows what’s going on with Gene and Sydney. She admonishes me for being nosey but then shares that she knows they have been spending regular time together over the last month. I omit that I know that The Eves has already been selected as the name for the new house. It’s hard to keep it a secret from her, but it’s not mine to tell. Besides, I don’t want to sound too gleeful.

  As I cut through Anacostia, and pass the Big Red Chair, I tell Sonia about Tia and Elizabeth’s ‘two chairs’ comment. She’s quick to respond.

  “Of course, Jessica, this makes perfect sense to me. It is just what I told Allison. She texted me over Christmas. She and Malcolm were on their sailing trip. She texted that she was missing Gene. This was very upsetting to me. I texted her back ‘Allison, I am very tired of this. You cannot wear two pair of shoes. You must decide what you are doing with your life. You have the most perfect of husbands for you. Do you want to throw that away for Gene? He is a very, very good man, but he is not your husband. Those shoes are not yours.

  “This is what I told her Jessica. You cannot wear two pairs of shoes. It is obvious that you cannot sit in two chairs. Allison cannot. Tia cannot. You cannot either, Jessica.

  “Why do people need to be told this? Live decisive lives, this is obvious.”

  We ring off. She promises to come to dinner in a few days and also go to the dinner at ‘the new house.’ I’m left with her scolding of Allison ringing in my ears. I know that speech. I’ve had Sonia’s alternate version raged at me. I guess we will see what unfolds with the others. For me, I have to get home, ready dinner, and set the table. For the first time in a very long time, I’m setting a table with two chairs.

  two truths and the lie

  A

  s I pull up to the house, I snag a close-by parking space, head up the steps, grab the mail, open the door to the lovely Gabler on her perch atop her small staircase, stop in the kitchen to check on the soup, and head upstairs to change and go through the mail.

  The house smells good and looks so good to me. I’m sure I would have gotten around to the cleaning eventually but the surprise of this, along with stopping and not restarting The Washington Post after the trip, leaves the whole place looking tidy. It’s time I started reading The Post online anyway.

  In my office I pay attention first to Roy’s receipts and invoices, along with the proposed plans. I go through these, write him a check, and know I will agree to most of the proposed work. I like having him around. Next, I tackle my email. There are the usual ones from students who were unhappy with a grade they received for last semester and from the ones enrolled in the upcoming semester wanting to get the syllabus ahead of time. I always wonder if they are trying to impress me with feigned interest or if they really will start the readings. At least they are better than the ones I get from the “helicopter,” or the more recent descriptor, “lawnmower” parents. The ones who try to be involved in everything, trying to mow down all obstacles and challenges for their children. They write, telling me how eager their child is to take my class, and would I please send them—the parents—the reading materials. Ridiculous. Are the parents going to read the materials, write the papers, and then complain about the grade? These emails I simply shake my head at and write a straightforward response that encourages them to have their child contact me directly. I’m glad I just missed that generation of childrearing where the parents and children are in some intense symbiotic parent-child dance. Or am I?

  Lastly, there isn’t much in snail-mail except a card, the card. Tucked inside a bunch of circulars, I almost missed it. I knew it would come, I just didn’t expect it so soon upon re-entry. Nothing will be unplanned about James’ Christmas greeting. Like a moth to a flame I open it. The card depicts a beautiful, pastoral scene with shepherds going toward a manger, the Christmas star overhead. The little stack of photos slides out as I open the card revealing James’ message. “Dear Jessica, we had a lovely Christmas visit. Did you?”

  There they are, my children. One could say bucolic. James always could play on my love of words and uses it now.

  I can’t avoid James’ eyes as he leans in toward the camera, grins and looks fiercely at the lens an arm around each of our children. He looks well, still handsome. He doesn’t even look stressed. Prison hasn’t changed him. The thought crosses my mind that he has probably figured out how to manage illegal drug trafficking even there. I have to stop myself. It doesn’t do any good to be bitter.

  Both James and Adam have beards. I think Adam is looking more like his dad as he grows into manhood, but he has my mother’s brilliant blue eyes. Adam looks really healthy. He must be running again. Ryn is glowing. There’s a man in the picture by her side and I wonder at this, of course. Slowly, I go through the other pictures trying to take in every subtlety. What does their body-language tell me? What are they wearing, are there rings on their fingers, how happy do they really look, is there some secret code someplace in the picture I should try to understand? Adam is wearing a sweater I gave him years ago. Ryn is wearing an orange top, her favorite color. Am I supposed to read into this or just be pained that I’m not in the picture?

  Its four o’clock. Surely, it’s not too early to check on the soup, set the table, and have a vodka. I take the photos with me.

  Gabler joins me in the kitchen as I freshen up the salad, add some seasoning to the soup, and decide to make some basil cheddar scones in lieu of the left-over bread from yesterday. The vodka tastes good and stiff as I work. I decide to set the table in the parlor, lay a fire, and move some candles from the dining room onto the new little table.

  Back in the kitchen, I pour another drink and feel, already, that I am on a slippery slope with this. Opening the back door, the chill comes in as I decide to carefully maneuver down the rear steps to get some holly leaves and berries for the table. How long has it been since I had Christmas decorations or holiday greenery in the house? I know exactly. It was the Christmas before that fatal phone call

  “Live decisively,” I hear Sonia say in my head, and I add it to the growing list of life-lessons I’m capturing for The Grange Project. I should be incorporating them into my life, developing mantras for more focused and peaceful living. Instead I pour just one more vodka and tuck the bottle under the counter. I tune my iPod to Pavarotti and the Three Tenors, grab some papers from the dining table along with the photos, and head upstairs again to write “live decisively” in my notes.

  At the top of the stairs I stop at their bedrooms and talk to their empty beds. Again, I apologize aloud. “I’m sorry. I felt I had no choice. I know you don’t know this part of the story. I decided to cooperate with the investigators because I thought it would save you. Yes, I decided to testify, but do you remember I didn’t have to? The courts had enough evidence. I’m not the one who convicted him. Forgive me. Please.”

  Thinking about Sonia’s comment, I know that that time, just before the trial, was the last time I lived decisively. It didn’t work out that well.

  In response to Erica’s ringtone I slide the phone out of my jeans’ back pocket. “Hey sweetie, what’s up?”

 
She says she’s calling because her mom wants to know what I’m wearing. “You know her,” Erica goes on, giggling and mimicking her mother. “When you are dead, they will not care what you said. They will remember only how you looked. Of course, that is in her opinion.”

  Ever since the night I got back from Africa, and Erica and Sonia had their scare and subsequent fight, Erica has become very clear about labeling things in people’s opinion. It’s become a joke between us.

  “Thank you, Erica. Please tell your mother that in my opinion I don’t actually believe she believes that. Tell her I am wearing something appropriate to have a friend in for a casual dinner.”

  “You’re not wearing sweats are you, Aunt Jessica? Tell me you are at least wearing skinny jeans, boots, some cute top, some jewelry—something big and showy or elegant like your gold locket, gold hoops, and makeup. Oh, please promise me you are wearing makeup!”

  I laughingly agree to her demands. I change into an outfit that I think both Sonia and Erica would approve. I’m fastening my gold locket around my neck when the text from Roy comes in announcing he will be late and that I should eat without him. He reinforces that he really, really wants to come by tonight if it’s still all right with me. I respond that it is fine and head to my office. It doesn’t feel fine at all. I feel so out-of-step with him. I don’t know where this is going at all. I decide to add the new stack of pictures from James to the others in the desk. Doing so, I realize that the folder is right next to the one I’ve been keeping for Roy’s work.

  Dread fills me. I realize he still doesn’t know the truth. He only knows my “story.” If tonight is going to go at all well, I have to tell him. They aren’t dead, just dead to me. The lie made such sense at the time. There are lots of cultures where the kids are “dead” to the parents, to the community. Like Tevye’s daughter Chava in Fiddler on the Roof. Like the Amish and shunning. The lie seems so inane now.

  It’s a cold night with a gentle wind. The neighborhood is quiet. I decide to brace for the impending talk by going out on the roof. I’m sober, but I want to be very clear-headed. I drag blankets out through the window and snuggle into one, sitting up, my back against the house, observing from my perch. It’s nine when I hear Roy coming up the street whistling. Seeing me up on the roof, he walk-runs towards me from the other side of the street, no coat, just a corduroy jacket. I call down to him and he asks for permission to come aboard. With a “permission granted,” I instruct him to bring us two mugs of soup, unless he’s really hungry, in which case we can do a full meal.

  A few minutes later he taps on the window from inside my office. He opens it, and hands me the steaming mugs with two spoons. He hops ably through the opening to join me. Closing the window behind him he sits on a blanket, draping just the top of it around his shoulder.

  We sip and slurp on the soup and chat about the day. The smell of a wood fire from one of the houses adds atmosphere. He compliments me on the soup, saying it hits the spot. I tell him I think he’s quaint for using that expression and that I’m glad he likes the soup. It’s easy to be with him, I don’t want to ruin the moment. I like the warmth of his hand on my leg as we chat.

  “So,” I begin. “You should be really proud of The Eves.” At the mention of the name he cocks his head, challenging me with his eyes. “I know about the name. Tia and Tobias told me. I didn’t want to pretend with you that I didn’t know.”

  The first truth.

  “I’m also really proud of all your work there, and here. Your bill and your recommendations for the rest of the work are fine, really good. I want you to keep working here. If I’m really being honest, that’s in part because, to paraphrase you, I might like you a ‘considerable amount.’” He squeezes my leg.

  Truth number two.

  He rambles for a bit in response and then there is silence. It’s time.

  I reach for his hand. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve let anyone close. The loss of Ryn and Adam. It was just more than I could handle. I’m not proud of that.”

  I explain to him that the car crash was real. That the hospital called me, they saw from the cell phones recovered at the scene that they had called “mom’s number” shortly before the crash. I rushed to them.

  “By the time I got there, they had been treated. They were both in ICU. All night I’d go between their beds, talk to them, pray for them. Ryn held my hand tightly throughout the night. Her hand felt so little. Adam wouldn’t meet my gaze and would flinch when I touched him. By morning, Adam asked me to go and Ryn said she thought that was a good idea.

  “I went back the next day and the next. Hospital staff told me I couldn’t see them. I sat outside their rooms for two more days before the staff made it clear I shouldn’t be there. I haven’t talked to either of my children since that night. They were both jury and judge, deciding I had destroyed their ‘perfect’ father.”

  As I talk, I take my hand away and feel my fists clenching. I tuck them deeply underneath the blanket. My nails cut into my palms, as I tell him I’ve lied. A really huge, and now really stupid, lie.

  After a few minutes, Roy takes in a deep breath, “I’m sorry, Jes. I knew they were alive. I’m sorry. I knew. I shouldn’t have pretended I didn’t. It was wrong to pretend, but it seemed so important to you to keep me out, I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “How? How did you know?” Fists still clenched, fighting for control.

  “There were lots of things. The first time I left invoices for you there was an email to them on your screen. I didn’t think you’d gone so far as to be writing to them if they were really dead. Then, there were the small handprints you left under your iPod the first night we talked. I wondered at why you brought them out. I put them back on top of that chest in the closet the next day.

  “A while back, Tobias asked me if I’d ever met any of your three kids. This evening before I left The Eves, Deirdre told me to say hello to your babies, especially the one with the funny name. There were so many openings to ask about this, but you seemed to need, well, need the lie. Tonight, you must have dropped this on the steps. It’s date-stamped 12/24, this past Christmas, just a few weeks ago. I’ve wanted to ask, Jes. Is this them?”

  He slides a photo of just Ryn and Adam, mugging for the camera, out of his jacket breast pocket. I nod, silently at first, and then, uncontrollably sob. Tears cascade. I keep trying to say, “They are alive. Alive!” but I’m gulping simply to breathe. He holds me until the rattles have subsided, but I’m still shaking.

  Slowly, he takes my hand to lead me over the window threshold just as the wind shifts. Suddenly, you can hear them. “Listen, lions” I tell him, trying to steady myself.

  “I know,” he replies. “A westward wind. Now, take my hand.”

  The smell of the wood fire is coming from my own house. Before coming out to the roof he’d lit the fireplace in my bedroom and laid out two glasses and a bottle of brandy on the little table at the foot of the bed.

  “Sit here,” he gently orders as he pours me a brandy. “You are still shaking. I’m going to draw you a bath.”

  He takes off his jacket, puts it on the back of the other chair, and smooths the shoulders. I do as I am told. Sitting staring at the fire, sipping the brandy, glass in one hand, other hand balled in a fist, shaking.

  A bit later he’s brought the mugs in off the roof as well as the blankets, neatly folded. I hear him go back down the hall and turn off the water. He comes back for me carrying my robe from the back of the bathroom door across his arm. Laying the robe on the bed he kneels at my lead-like feet and takes off my Erica-ordered boots and socks. Taking the glass from my hand he pulls me to a stand and ever so gently, as if he has done this a thousand times, unbuckles my belt, untucks my shirt and begins to unbutton it. He runs his finger, and then his lips down each area of exposed skin, his eyes checking with mine each time.

  Naked, except for my gold locket, he asks if I need to take it off. As I shake my
head no, he puts the robe over my shoulders for the short walk to the tub. Only the night light and skylight illuminate the room as I sink silently, still with balled fist, into the perfectly warm tub. Roy brings our glasses and sits on the commode. I’m not even aware of the flab of my skin or the droop of my breasts. I’m dimly aware that I like the sense of him nearby but otherwise I’m not really sure what I’m feeling. I’ve stopped shaking but I can’t seem to un-ball my fist. I feel like I’ve never been here before.

  Roy finishes his brandy, then mine. He rolls up his sleeves, takes a cloth from the rack, and begins to wash me. My eyes find his and he tells me to just be still. “Just be here, don’t think.”

  Before the tub cools, and before the fire in the bedroom begins to fade, he instructs me to get up as he drains the water and guides me out of the tub, toweling me dry, completely. There’s a tingling in my body, in all the right places but he makes no more advances. I feel too otherworldly to act on my own. Back in my robe I head down the hall and sit in my bedroom. I can hear him tidying up the bathroom before he joins me. Entering the room, he stokes the fire and turns down the bed, just on one side.

  “Come on,” he says, hand extended reaching for me.

  “Stay,” I tell him as I slide off my robe and slip into bed

  It seems to take him a long time to decide. He sits on the end of the bed, staring at the fire, hand on my leg through the covers.

  “Jes, I told you. I like you a considerable amount. I don’t want this to be about sex. This is probably not the night for me to be here.”

  “Maybe it’s exactly the right night,” I say beginning to shake again. “But I can understand if I’ve scared you away. I’ve scared myself pretty well tonight.”

  “I don’t scare easily, Jes. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sometime after that he obviously decided. I must have fallen asleep. When I roll over in the night the room has grown cold, the lights are off. There are only embers in the fireplace. He is in bed beside me! I roll toward him for warmth and realize he’s naked. I love the feel of his skin. Peace washes over me. I never remember having this by simply lying with a man. He stirs in his sleep, pulling me closer.